


Keeping him (It's all about intent)

by sittinginmytincan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: EXCEPT WHEN IT IS, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Helpful Alan Deaton, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Married Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, No Malia Tate, Plot, Plotty, Sassy Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Time Travel, Time Travelling Stiles Stilinski, magic is not baking, plus Murder Sister, spells go wrong sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 48
Words: 120,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sittinginmytincan/pseuds/sittinginmytincan
Summary: A spell fucks up, meaning Stiles finds himself in a strange time and place - and somehow married to Peter Hale.Lydia's disappeared under less-than-awesome circumstances, and finding her is the key to getting Stiles back home. Annoyingly, Peter feels compelled, for husbandly reasons, to tag along and help him. Only, as it turns out, Peter's not so annoying. And getting back is a lot harder than Stiles anticipates. Maybe having Peter around isn't so bad after all.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles squints down at the book and calls it. There’s nothing else to say. The spell is a gigantic exercise in stupidity.

“There’s no way in hell this’ll work,” he says.

“Stop bitching and give me the last ingredient,” Lydia snaps. She’s steeping the spell ingredients in a mix of water and vinegar. It’s meant to be water drawn from a well during a full moon on midsummer eve; they compromised last night by dipping a bucket in a pond in the Preserve. The vinegar wasn't specified, so they used Derek's cheap apple cider vinegar.

Scott is watching from Derek’s couch, visibly nervous. The rest of the pack pose attractively—Stiles can’t help noticing, okay, he's only human; hell, even Deucalion had sensed it—around the loft. None of them are near the circle Stiles chalked on the floor two hours ago. Erica’s playing something on her phone, Boyd appears to be asleep, Isaac and Liam are playing cards, and Cora has disappeared somewhere. Derek does his usual silent brooding at the window while Peter does _his_ usual thing of lurking on the stairs and throwing out one-liners.

They’ve been waiting for over an hour. Stiles and Lydia had thought this spell would take a shorter amount of time. Sue them. It’s their first time with this one.

Stiles tries not to think of Kira, out trying to track the rabid gryphon that’s currently rampaging through Beacon Hills. Her fox energy would’ve messed with the spell, so she volunteered to try and keep it from killing anyone else.

He slaps the page of the book. “That’s the problem, Lydia. I can’t tell what the next ingredient is meant to be.” He hates cursive. _Hates_ it. Thank fuck for computers.

Lydia rolls her eyes and joins him. One second later she squints too. “Huh.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

The pack sighs loudly and Peter snorts. “To think I returned from the dead for this.”

Stiles scowls at him. “We can send you back anytime.”

“It looks more appealing with every second.”

“You gonna run your mouth all day or you got a better idea?”

Peter raises his eyebrows in that stupid sarcastic expression he does. “We could cover you in glitter and see how long the gryphon takes to find you.” Gryphons being known for their love of shiny things—this was how they knew it was in town, it attacked all the jewellers and keeps going after glass.

“Your face is a gryphon,” Stiles mutters.

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to.”

“Focus, Stiles,” Scott says.

Lydia snaps her fingers. “It’s either thyme or marjoram.”

Marjor-what? Stiles isn’t sure he’s heard of either of those.

“I have basil and oregano,” Derek says.

“Then we’re using oregano,” Lydia decides. She heads over to the cupboards and starts rifling.

Stiles gets a flicker of unease. Just a little. A tiny flutter. A _flap_. “This isn’t a recipe. We can’t just substitute stuff and get a similar result.”

Lydia hustles to the pot with a small jar in her hand. “Yes we can. Magic is about intent, not the ingredients.”

“The ingredients are still important.”

“When there isn’t a rabid gryphon stealing all the traffic lights in town and attacking everyone wearing earrings, then we can discuss sourcing ingredients for a spell cupboard.” She pours in the oregano and glances at him. “Intent does most of the work. That’s what the book says. You’re not doubting this, are you?”

Stiles throws his hands up. “Uh, yeah? I totally am. Since when do any of our actual planned plans work out? How do you expect _this_ to work?”

Lydia stirs the mix. “Because you’re our spark and we know you can do it.”

“Do we?” Peter drawls.

“Shut up, Peter,” several voices respond.

Once the mixture has steeped for long enough, they call Cora back, and the pack stands around the circle. They have to help focus the magic. Stiles has been memorising the incantation, because he’s got the most important role—he has to recite it while draining the mixture in the middle of the circle. Then he has to light the wet herbs on fire (how is not entirely clear) and allow the ashes to infuse the circle with power. Apparently this will draw the gryphon to the loft and they can do the usual shifter-banshee attack thing. Stiles has been told to hide behind something reinforced with his bat as back up once the spell is complete.

Stiles pours the mixture into a bowl and takes a deep breath, then coughs because, damn, the potion stinks. He steps into the circle and starts reciting aloud. He focuses on the bowl, thinking of the gryphon, wanting it to come, willing it to follow the spell’s call. Around him the chalk lines begin to glow.

He finishes the incantation, then leans down to drain the bowl into the strainer they placed there earlier. His foot slips out from under him and he faceplants onto the floor, water and herbs going everywhere.

“Owww.” Fuck that hurt. One side of his face is throbbing, and so are his hands. He pushes himself up, ready for the groans and complaints, and instead faces a fuzzy yellow ottoman.

He blinks.

Derek doesn’t own a fuzzy yellow anything.

He looks around.

He’s not in Derek’s loft anymore. He’s in someone else’s living room. Someone who apparently does interior design: there’s a blocky grey sofa plus yellow ottoman, dangerous-looking lamps, tall bookcases, a large sleek screen, and the biggest floor-to-ceiling windows Stiles has ever seen. That’s not saying much, given his experience with super luxury apartments is precisely half of nothing. He can still tell this place is swank as hell.

But he’s not supposed to be here.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Everything okay?” someone calls.

Stiles spins around and stares at the doorway to the living room. A moment later, Peter sticks his head through. “You okay? I thought I heard something falling.”

Stiles gapes at him. “What the . . . You’re here?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “I hadn’t left _quite_ yet, sweetheart.” He extends one arm bearing a tupperware box. “Almost forgot lunch.”

Sweetheart? Left for . . . work? _Lunch?_

Peter smirks. “Clearly my blowjobs still have the magic touch. Don’t be late for work. I’ll see you at six. Love you.” He ducks away, and Stiles hears footsteps thud then the gentle shut of a door.

_Blowjobs_?

_Love you?_

What the everloving fuck is going on?

Stiles pinches himself. It hurts a lot and doesn’t help him wake up. Dammit. In doing that, he realises he’s wearing a clean white shirt and worn-looking jeans—no ruined herb potion or flannel to be seen. Plus his body is . . . different. Wider. Muscley-er.

He slumps down onto what looks like an expensive shag rug and tries to breathe. He has to do that and assess the situation. Establish the facts.

**Facts; a complete list by Stiles Stilinski**

  1. The spell has fucked up. “Oregano is just as good”—he is going to _kill _Lydia._  
_
  2. Lydia is now top of his shit list.
  3. Scratch that—Peter Hale is, because Peter apparently lives here and therefore has to be involved.
  4. Stiles is in Peter’s apartment. Somehow. Even though Stiles has been to Peter’s apartment and it doesn't look like this.

He checks the view outside. This is not Beacon Hills. There are way more rolling hills and lush green trees and the houses are taller and packed together like sardines. Where the hell is he?

  1. He is no longer in Beacon Hills.
  2. Peter apparently swings both ways?
  3. Stiles is officially fucked.
  4. Stiles has to get out of here.

He stands and begins searching the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wants to find keys and a phone and anything that seems useful. It takes a while because he keeps being distracted by the abysmally copious pictures of him and Peter on the walls and shelves—them smiling, making faces, kissing each other, standing in front of beautiful scenes and famous places. Oh god. He wants to throw up. He forces himself to breathe instead. _It’s just a bad spell. A bad spell. This isn’t real._

It’s also not just the fact that he and Peter are apparently a couple in this badsickwrong universe, it’s that both of them visibly age in the photos. _He’s_ gotten older. When he catches sight of himself in the hallway mirror, he wastes at least five minutes silently freaking out at how much like his _dad_ he looks.

He’s not _old_ old, just over-thirty old. After all, Stiles is actually twenty. He's in his final year of college. He has exactly one new wrinkle from studying that year. The Stiles staring back at him has smile crinkles and wider shoulders and tattoos on his arms. There are lines on his forehead that weren’t there before and an overall bigger, weightier look to him. It’s not a _bad_ look, just shocking. Still a handsome devil though, _obviously._

The apartment has a living room, a kitchen, a hallway, bathroom, study, and one bedroom.

One.

Bedroom.

He braces himself and goes in.

Oh no.

A king size bed with crumpled sheets sits in the middle of a wide room with another floor-to-ceiling window. Clothes lie on the floor and strewn across one chair near the window. There’s a shiny wardrobe along the opposite wall. In every bare wall space are multiple pictures of both of them in tuxes and nauseatingly love-filled poses—staring into each others’ eyes, kissing in front of a sunset, looking tearfully at each other, walking barefoot hand-in-hand through grass with flower garlands on their heads.

Stiles raises his left hand to find a silver wedding band there and shrieks. He instinctively pulls it off and throws it across the room.

On the bedside table (next to a photograph of them pressing foreheads together while a sunbeam illuminates a grove of trees and butterflies behind them that Stiles valiantly ignores) he finds keys and a phone. Success.

On his second pass through the hallway, he finds a bag complete with unmarked security card, wallet, laptop, and Tupperware box. Another success. He takes the lot and leaves.

The apartment is in a tall building. He walks down the hallway until he finds the elevator, then takes it to the floor below ground, hoping it’s a carpark and that the Stiles in this fucked up nightmare has a car in it.

It _is_ the carpark. While walking around and pressing the unlock button on his key, Stiles explores his phone. It’s way nicer than his actual phone; it’s much sleeker and shinier and easier to hold. He swipes in his PIN and miracle of miracles it unlocks. He finds Scott’s number and tries to call, but it doesn’t connect—he’s underground, oops.

Finally a Mercedes near him flashes and beeps, and Stiles stares at it. “You have to be freaking kidding me.” What did this version of him _do_, exactly? A _Mercedes_? Seriously? This moronic spell thinks Stiles would ever be tempted—or, let’s face it, able—to buy a Mercedes and live in a super fancy apartment and _marry Peter Hale_. This version of reality is Fucked Up.

He can’t think too much about it. Too much thinking bad. No, time to get home from . . . wherever he was. He should probably figure that out.

He gets in and starts the car. The GPS immediately prompts him for a journey input, and after some playing around, he realises he’s in San Francisco.

San Francisco.

Fucking . . .

He inputs Beacon Hills and gets out of the building. It’s going to be a long drive, and he’s abruptly grateful for the Tupperware lunchbox, because he’s not sure if his wallet has money or fancy schmancy credit cards or if everything’s on his phone or what.

Once he’s free of the city and feels calm enough, he goes through his phone and tries Scott again. This time it connects, but Scott doesn’t pick up. Stiles tries a bunch of times, but no dice. He leaves a message instead.

“Scott, buddy, it’s Stiles, and I need help like whoa. Something fucking weird is happening and I need you, okay? Pick up already. Pick up. You’re not picking up. Shit. Call me back.”

He hangs up, thinks about it for a moment, then calls again. “It’s not a life or death thing, by the way, no monsters unless you count Peter. Things are _not okay_ but I'm not dying, all right? Cool. Speak soon, bud.”

Then he calls his dad, who also doesn’t pick up. What the fuck is with his people? Since when don’t they answer their freaking phones? Stiles leaves a message for his dad too, telling him he’s on his way to Beacon Hills.

Several hours later, his dad wins Best Person in Stiles’ Nightmare Universe award by being the first person to call back.

“You okay, kiddo?” John asks.

“No, I’m not okay.” Stiles is almost ready to cry at the familiar sound of his dad’s voice.

“Is it Peter?”

Trust his dad to ask the right questions. “In a way? Dad, am I actually _married_ to him?”

There’s a long silence. “Son, is this a joke?”

Stiles very much hopes so.

“Because you are,” John continues, “and you were very vocal about being so for most of your relationship.”

Stiles wants to punch this universe's Stiles in the face and faceplant into the steering wheel, but neither seem good ways to resolve anything. “And you _let_ me?”

His dad’s sigh is the same, which is a relief. “What is this about, Stiles? What happened?”

Stiles straightens. “Okay. This is gonna sound crazy, Dad, but hear me out. I’m not from here. Me and the pack, we were doing this spell and it went bad and I woke up in an apartment in this universe where I live in San Francisco and married Peter and there is so much wrong on so many levels with what I just said and basically I need to go back.”

Another long silence, this one Stiles hopes is filled with his dad thinking of ways to help him.

“Uh. Get back to what, exactly?” John asks.

Stiles throws his hands in the air then hastily clutches the steering wheel. “I don’t . . . I mean, back to _my_ universe. The spell went bad and it sent me into an alternate world, you know? In my world, I’m twenty and I’m in Beacon Hills for a short break and there’s a gryphon tearing shit up and I am most definitely _not_ married to Peter and don’t own a Merc.”

“Stiles,” and his dad’s voice has turned worried, “what year is it?”

Stiles hesitates. This sounds like a trick. He says what year it should be before glancing at the date on his phone. His stomach plummets just as his dad says, “Oh kiddo. I’ll meet you at the house once you get here.”

“Dad—”

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Let me know when you’re in town.”

They end the call and Stiles blinks as he tries not to cry.

The date on his phone is twelve years later than it should be.

He’s twelve years in the future.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

He is going to _kill_ Lydia _and_ Peter and _burn_ that fucking spellbook.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any typos, I edited and posted this when super tired.

A couple of hours and about fifty missed calls and texts from Peter later, it’s the early afternoon and Stiles has reached the outskirts of Beacon Hills. He’s only stopped for bathroom and food breaks, and to top up the battery of his car (it’s electric, which he’s guessing is how the future rolls). Over the course of the day, a decent bruise has formed on one side of his face, which he can tell already is going to provoke certain questions from his dad. He isn’t sure if it’s from faceplanting on Derek’s concrete floor or on the San Francisco place’s shag rug, but either way, it looks nasty.

As he passes the Preserve, he finally gets a call from Scott. He answers and says, “Finally!”

“Hey bro.” Scott sounds wary.

Stiles frowns. “Hey.”

“How are you? How are things? You doing okay?”

Stiles doesn’t like that tone of voice. “_Scott_.”

“Okay, look, I get it, something’s up. It’s just, uh, I’ve been getting some interesting calls from your dad and Peter. Are you in Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah.” Stiles navigates the turn that avoids the centre of town. “Just arrived.”

“Great! And you’re feeling okay?”

“No, I’m in emotional fucking turmoil because I have a real fucking problem. I don’t know what Dad and Peter have been saying, but you have to listen to me. I’m not this Stiles. I’m Stiles from twelve years ago. Possibly from another dimension or universe. You with me so far?”

“Uh—”

“Think back twelve years to that gryphon we fought. Remember the spell we fucked up?”

There’s another weird silence and _wow_ Stiles is getting sick of those. Scott says slowly, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

More specific . . .? “We’ve handled more than one gryphon? Seriously?”

“Yeah. A bunch. Then you started developing your powers and put up a ward around Beacon Hills and now the bad stuff stays away. Remember?”

“Really not.” Oh shit. “Okay. Fine. Uh. The first gryphon then. Winter break, after Christmas. I was in college.”

“I vaguely remember that, yeah. I don’t remember the spell fucking up.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “I literally fell in the middle of casting it.”

“Ha! That's right, you did! But that didn’t matter in the end. You saved the spell and it worked.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that information. “But . . . I fell over. The spell had to have collapsed.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, bro. Is that what you remember last? Falling over?”

“Yeah. I fell over, and when I got up, I was in an apartment I’ve never seen before, in which I apparently live with Peter Hale, to whom I’m married. And _that_ alone doesn’t seem weird to you?! Me and Peter? Scotty, in what world does that make sense?”

“Well, uh . . .” Scott sounds even warier. “Not gonna lie, dude, I’m worried. I freaked out about the two of you when you got together and you reamed me a new one. And I’m on board now, seeing how you two are weirdly perfect together. He makes you crazy happy, and even though I still don’t _get_ it, I see it, you know? And I’m glad you’re happy. But now you’re suddenly saying the complete opposite and it’s messed up, dude. This really doesn’t sound like you.”

Stiles realises he’s clenching the steering wheel. “Scott. Listen to me. I am not the Stiles you know. We were fighting the gryphon—the _first_ gryphon. The spell did fuck up. It sent me, twenty-year-old me, to this time. I’m very single. I’m very out of place.” His voice catches. “Scott, help me.”

Scott lets out a breath. “I got you. It’s going to be okay. We’ll talk once I’m done with work. We’ll figure out what to do, okay?”

Stiles’ eyes are watery and he wipes at them angrily as he says, “Yeah, we’ll do that.”

“I get off in a few hours. See you soon. Hang in there.” Scott hangs up.

It’s not as promising as Stiles wants, but it’s the best he’s got. He’ll convince Scott one way or another.

As he puts down his phone, another text from Peter appears. Stiles has been steadily ignoring them, but he admits he’s impressed that Peter cares.

Well. He’s assuming it’s care that’s making Peter text and call like this. Maybe here Peter’s a normal person who’s capable of love. Maybe Peter’s not a psychopath hellbent on attaining alphahood no matter what. Maybe he should check the texts—just to see what this Peter is like.

He parks outside his dad’s house and picks up his phone. The first few messages are things like _boss is on a rampage today, wish me luck in not ripping his face off. miss you_ and _you get to your work thing on time?_ but they escalate, going rapidly through _Stiles, I’m serious and I’m worried. Are you hurt? Please answer your phone_ up to _I’M NOT FUCKING AROUND STILES PICK UP YOUR FUCKING PHONE_ and _THIS IS COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY. ANSWER ME_.

“Nope, still a psycho,” Stiles declares.

He gets out of the car and goes to the front door. It takes a few seconds to handle the unfamiliar keys on his chain but he eventually lets himself in.

The Stilinski household still looks the same and it’s _wonderful_. It’s balm. It’s healing. He’s never going to get bored or annoyed with this place ever again. Never. His dad can never move and Stiles will inherit this place and never let strangers into it. If he has his way, he will die here in the comfort of family history.

“Is that you, Stiles?” his dad calls from the back.

“Yeah!” Stiles shuts the door and moves, suddenly wanting nothing more than to see his dad.

John emerges from the kitchen just as Stiles reaches it. He’s visibly older—the wrinkles and white hair throw Stiles for a moment, but he still goes in for their patented Stilinski hug.

John hugs him tight. “It’s good to see you, kiddo. Glad you made it.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Stiles’ voice cracks just a little and he coughs to cover it up.

After hugging it out, he leans back and takes his dad in. John is shorter, white-haired, but recognisably his dad. He looks good—he’s leaner and dressed casually in jeans and hiking boots. In fact . . . “You’re not at work,” Stiles realises.

John frowns. “I retired two years ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. My kid came into his own and keeps me in the style to which I’m accustomed.” It’s a joke, but John isn’t laughing. “What happened to you?”

Stiles blinks at him, then remembers the bruise on his face. “I fell over.”

John scowls. “Stiles, it’s me. You don’t have to cover up for a fight with Peter if that’s what—”

“No!” Stiles shakes his head. “That’s not it! I promise! I really did fall over.”

For some reason this doesn’t seem to reassure John. “What did you fall onto? How did you hit your face like that?”

“The floor. I tripped on something and hit the floor.”

John shakes his head. “And you drove from San Francisco like that? Sit down, Stiles.”

He’s steered to the sofa and sat down. John brings him water and snacks, like he’s a kid again, and Stiles is honestly so grateful he has to surreptitiously wipe his eyes again at one point.

John sits next to him. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Stiles takes a deep breath and starts talking. He explains about everything: the spell, ingredients swap, appearing in the apartment, and driving down here. His dad listens, frowning.

“So, you’re not thirty-two, you’re twenty,” he says at the end.

Stiles nods.

“Stiles . . .”

Someone knocks at the front door. John goes to let them in and Stiles sips his water. In telling the story over and over, he’s beginning to realise just how off the wall it sounds. Werewolves and druids and magic is second-nature to him and the pack and his dad by now—but time travel is new. Alternate universe travel is flat out theoretical physics level stuff. Stiles has a sneaking suspicion this is actually the future.

Melissa comes into the living room. “Stiles!”

He’s glad to see her. She looks amazing, even with obvious greys and more wrinkles. He hugs her, then she looks him over and raises his chin. “What happened to your face?”

Stiles sighs. How many times does he have to explain this? “I fell over. I’m fine, seriously.” She looks closely at the bruise, then feels over his scalp. Stiles glances at his dad, then things click into place. “Melissa, why are you examining me?”

“Because you not remembering the last decade of your life and driving all the way here without telling Peter a thing is not normal behaviour and I’m worried,” she replies.

“Me too,” his dad says.

Stiles pulls his head away and watches Melissa study him. “The bruise is all I can find, and while obviously something happened to your head, Stiles, I don’t think you have a concussion.” She glances at John. “Something like this doesn’t usually result in amnesia, John.”

John’s mouth thins. “But he doesn’t remember anything past that first gryphon attack in college.”

“I’m not denying that, John, I'm stating the facts.”

“Heads are strange,” John says. “My son’s especially. Even a knock like that could do something, right?”

Stiles spreads his hands. “Right here, you two. Literally standing right here.”

They glance at each other, then Melissa says, “We should take you in for some scans, Stiles. Just to be safe. Amnesia is alarming and indicative of deeper problems. You should be checked out.”

Amnesia? He doesn’t have that. There was a spell. He’s not . . .

A very practical part of Stiles recognises that amnesia is a fairly logical explanation of how he remembers his morning, and that is terrifying.

“My head is fine,” he says. “There was a spell and it went wrong and that explains why I’m behaving like this. I don’t need scans.”

John steps forward. “They wouldn’t hurt, Stiles. Believe me, you’re not behaving normally.”

“How so? Coming here, where my home is?”

“You wouldn’t drop your responsibilities and drive down to Beacon Hills without telling Peter,” John says. “That’s strange. That’s not you.”

Stiles is sick of hearing this. “Where I’m coming from, willingly involving Peter in anything is strange. Come on, dad. You were there!”

“He’s right, Stiles,” Melissa says. “I could see you coming down here like this if we or the town were in danger—but not telling Peter? I can’t imagine that.”

Stiles stares at them. They don’t believe him. Why don’t they believe him? Okay, so time travel is pushing it in terms of supernatural mindfuckery, but it’s still totally in their wheelhouse.

His mind races. Scott didn’t seem to believe him either. They’re all talking about some other Stiles who seems like a totally different person. The thing is, Stiles knows what he went through. He knows who he is and what actually happened. His brain is _fine_, he’s _twenty_, he’s—

Wait a minute. They all know a thirty-two-year old version of him. That means that _he came back_. Somehow he figured out what to do and he came back and he grew up. His thirty-two-year-old self spent twelve years knowing his twenty-year-old version would come knocking—and he didn’t tell his dad, Melissa or Scott. They have no idea and they don’t believe him. Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he tell _them_ of all people?


	4. Chapter 4

When Scott finally comes by, Stiles is sitting on the back porch staring into the yard. He’s sipping a beer and refusing to go to the hospital. John and Melissa have been rotating between trying to convince him to go, waiting around for Scott, and talking to Peter. Stiles overheard them when he went to the bathroom, and at least that means Peter has stopped blowing up his phone.

Stiles is no closer to figuring out what to do, but he knows that if he ever gets a chance to meet his older self, he’s going to go total apeshit on him. He’s time travelled, and he didn’t leave clues or help for himself. Seriously. Did he lose his mind as well as his taste in men? Is older Stiles a total freaking moron? Did he peak during college?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

Stiles wanted to call Lydia during the afternoon, but he couldn’t find her number in his unfamiliar, shiny, stupid phone. He called Derek, but sourwolf didn’t pick up. Neither did Kira or Erica. So he’s decided his phone is cursed and the next port of call is Deaton, but his dad and Melissa won’t let him leave unless it’s to go to hospital.

So now he’s having a beer because if he’s going to be stuck in his older body, he might as well enjoy the perks of legal drinking.

Scott sits next to him and Stiles glares at him, then does a double-take. “Holy shit, dude.” Scott has _filled out_. Scott has a fucking eight-pack. Scott’s arms and thighs look like they can crush watermelons. Scott has a milkshake that would bring anyone with a libido to all the yards. Not that Stiles is interested, because ew, Scott is his brother, so no, just no, but guys at the Jungle and every hetero woman with a pulse in a ten-mile radius would order that beefcake with sauce to go and Stiles wouldn’t blame them one bit.

Stiles is wondering why twelve years means he ended up with tattoos and a ball-and-chain called Peter when Scott looks amazing and like he benchpresses trees for a workout. Why can’t Stiles look like that? If—no, _when_ Stiles gets back to his time, he’s going to hit the gym and develop biceps that can crack walnuts, and he’s going to leave a nice big message for himself saying READ THIS STILES so that he can avoid all this spell travel trauma.

He drinks more beer.

Scott is frowning at him. “What?”

“You’re fucking ripped!”

Scott grins. “Werewolf, remember?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I haven’t totally lost my mind, Scott.”

“Just most of it.”

“None of it.” Stiles sighs. “You talked to the parents?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t believe me. None of you believe me.”

Scott is quiet, then says, “That’s not true. I’m going to help you no matter what, okay? But I need proof, Stiles, because what my mom is saying in there makes a lot more sense than time travel.”

The worst thing is, Stiles can’t even argue with the logic of that. “Take me to Deaton.”

“Sure.”

Thank fuck Scott is still Scott. Stiles turns and hugs him tightly. “Thanks.”

They do manly shoulder slaps, then Scott says, “Are you sure you don’t want to be checked first? Just to eliminate the possibility?”

Stiles shakes his head. It’s not a possibility.

“You don’t remember this, Stiles,” Melissa says behind him, “but you put up a barrier around Beacon Hills years ago to protect us from supernatural problems. We know you protected yourself as well. I’m not sure how you can explain a spell affecting you like this if you’re protected against magic.”

He turns to look at her. “I’m a spark, Melissa. Not a full-blown mage. I don’t know how spells work, but I know that this one pulled me from when I’m supposed to be.”

She leans against the frame of the backdoor. John stands next to her. They both look strained and uncertain.

Melissa gestures. “And what if I’m right? What if this is your life and you’ve just forgotten it?”

Stiles closes his eyes. He remembers the awful smell of the potion and the way the chalk lit up. He remembers the anxiety in the room. He remembers how Lydia moved around the loft, in charge and snapping orders. He remembers Peter on the stairs, being cynical. He remembers the elation he shared with Lydia when they found the spell and realised how simple it was, how he, someone with a just a sliver of magic, could do it. He doesn’t feel older.

He does feel angry. His skin practically buzzes with it. “For the last freaking time,” he snaps, “I’m not brain damaged and this is not my life.”

“I disagree on both points,” says a new voice. Melissa and John look behind them, then stand aside to let Peter come onto the porch.

Stiles freezes for a moment, then downs the rest of his beer. Peter strides over and crouches next to him, blue eyes boring holes into Stiles’ head. At this range, Stiles can feel the anger emanating off him, and if looks could kill, he’d be a steaming pile of ash by now.

But now Stiles can see how similar this Peter is to the Peter he knows. A button-down shirt that’s open just one button too many, rumpled suit jacket, lean werewolf body, a few extra lines like everyone else, and permanent crinkles by his eyes. There’s a silver fox effect going on thanks to the grey in his hair and stubble, not that Stiles notices that especially or anything.

Peter grips his shoulder. “What _the hell_ is going on, Stiles? Driving to Beacon Hills with no notice? Not answering your phone? No explanation?” His scowl deepens. “And what the fuck happened to your face?”

Stiles shrugs him off. “I fell over.”

“You . . .” Peter drags his now-free hand through his hair. “You _did_ fall over. I knew I heard something.”

“You heard him fall?” Melissa says.

“I heard _something_ this morning.” Peter’s still staring at him, but it’s less angry and more deliberating. “You seemed okay.” He tilts his head. “You asked me why I was there.”

“He thinks he’s twenty and that a spell brought him here, to this time,” Scott says.

“Huh,” Peter says.

“_We_ think he has amnesia and needs to see a doctor,” Melissa says.

Stiles has had enough of this. He’s done with being talked over. “And _I_ am going to see Deaton while you all talk this out, thanks, bye.”

He stands as Melissa, John and Scott all start talking. Peter stands with him, gaze still fixed on him.

“Deaton doesn’t always have the answer,” Melissa is saying. “He’s a vet! A druid! _Not_ a doctor! You can’t go to him for everything.”

“But he can do tests that doctors can’t,” Scott counters. “What’s the harm?”

John shakes his head. “The _harm_ is that Stiles could be badly hurt in ways we can’t see and every second counts, Scott.”

Peter reaches out and grabs Stiles’ arm. Stiles tries to pull away, but Peter holds on tight, concentrating, and a few wisps of grey evaporate off his arm. After a few seconds, he lets go. “He’s not bleeding internally, Melissa.”

She scowls. “You can’t _know_ that.”

“He’s not in pain and I’m not picking up damage.” Peter glances at Scott. “I’ll take him to Deaton.”

Stiles heads into the house, uninterested in who’s going to Deaton’s and who isn’t—the important thing is he absolutely is. He feels calmer now, probably due to the beer.

Peter being there is a surprise. He drove from San Francisco after him? For a psychopath, that’s intense.

Outside, he heads for his car. Parked behind it is a Lotus. Stiles rolls his eyes, because what a cliché, and unlocks his. It seems weird to get in a Mercedes outside of his house. Where’s Roscoe? Another sign that this is a messed-up future—why would he ever get rid of Roscoe?

“Drinking and driving isn’t safe,” Peter says behind him.

Stiles jumps then turns around. “One beer isn’t going to do shit. What’s it to you anyway?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “Oh, just your health and wellbeing. I did swear to honour and protect you.”

“I thought it was honour and obey.”

“Not for us.” Peter comes closer. “Where’s your ring?”

Ring? Stiles clenches his left hand. “In the apartment.” He yanks open the car door. “Tell the others I’ll be back in an hour.” He settles behind the wheel and closes the door.

Peter slides in next to him. He slams the door shut and waves at the road when Stiles glares at him. “Well? Let’s go.”

“If anyone is going with me to see Deaton, it’s Scott.”

“I told them I’d look after you. Call it a husband prerogative.”

Stiles actually shudders. “Get out.”

Peter flips out his claws and picks at his teeth with one. “Make me.”

It’s a lost cause. Stiles starts the car. “Don’t get in my way.”

“I would never.”

Like hell. “I don’t know what your stake is in this, Peter, but so that we’re clear?” Stiles gestures between them. “This didn’t happen. Not to me. So I’m not going to accept any marriage bullshit from you. Whatever game you’re playing, drop it. Not interested.”

“Interesting tactic, sweetheart,” Peter says. “You might want to reconsider though.”

Stiles pulls out of his street, narrowly avoiding a teenager on a bike. Fuck, Peter is distracting. “Why would I do that?”

“Because if you want to get back to your time, you’re going to need my help.”

It takes a few seconds to trickle through. Stiles comes to an abrupt stop at a stop sign and turns to Peter. He isn’t smirking or smiling anymore. He seems totally serious. When the punchline really doesn’t arrive, Stiles says, “You believe me?”

Peter examines his claws. “You should’ve answered your phone, Stiles. It would’ve saved us a lot of time.”

So fucking irritating. “_Peter_.”

Those clear blue eyes snap to his. “Yes I believe you. Of course I do. You told me this would happen.” He grins. “Welcome to the future, husband of mine.”

**Facts; a complete list by Stiles Stilinski, continued**

9\. This is not another universe, this is the future.

10\. The future is terrible.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild plot appears!

Stiles takes a long few seconds to recover, then snorts. “How long have you been waiting to deliver that line?”

“Long enough, believe me,” Peter says.

Stiles hits the accelerator and heads for the vet clinic. Peter doesn’t say anything else, which gives Stiles enough time to quell the urge to go for Peter’s throat.

Him.

Why _him_?

Seriously, Old Stiles has to be on something.

When they exit the car, Peter clears his throat. “You’re being remarkably calm about this.”

“I can be not calm. How about this: I hate you and the version of me that exists in this cursed future. You couldn’t have said something in the apartment? Before I left?”

“In my defence,” Peter says, “I had no idea it would happen today. I genuinely thought there was something wrong with you. All your father and Scott kept talking about was amnesia and strange behaviour.”

Stiles glares at him but doesn’t respond. Old Stiles told Peter this would happen but not when. Interesting. He wonders just how much Peter actually knows.

They reach the front door and Stiles knocks. Deaton opens it immediately. “Stiles, Peter. I was expecting you. Come in.” He gestured them through. Unlike nearly everyone else Stiles knows, he hasn’t appeared to age a day. It’s a little creepy.

Deaton leads them to his office and leans against the desk. “Scott said you needed my help. What’s the problem?”

“If you were expecting us, shouldn’t you know?” Peter says.

Deaton gives his usual serene smile. “Scott didn’t mention details. You’ll have to narrow it down for me.”

Peter straightens his shoulders and that smug look appears on his face. Stiles beats him to it. “I’m not the Stiles you currently know. I’m from twelve years ago. We messed up a spell to draw a gryphon and I was pushed here and I need to get back, please and thank you.”

Deaton nods. “Ah, the time travel incident. One second.” He turns and begins looking through files.

Peter seems to deflate. “You told him too. _Him_?”

Stiles does a mental fist pump. Old Stiles has finally, _finally_ come through. “So, I’m guessing Old Stiles didn’t tell you _that_ much about this,” he says. “Maybe _you_ need to reconsider a few things.”

Peter leans back a little too casually. “Don’t call yourself old.”

Deaton turns back to them with two envelopes and hands one to Stiles. HI YOUNGER SEXY ME reads the front in his handwriting.

“Really?” Peter comments.

Stiles ignores him and tears it open. Finally something concrete. _Finally_. He pulls out a note with a date from eleven years ago.

_Hey. It’s me. That is, you. So, this is super fucked up! Don’t think too much about the paradox part, okay? Welcome to the future. You’ve got work to do, but I promise you’ll get through this. Firstly: it wasn’t the oregano. That didn’t help, but it wasn’t that. Secondly: Deaton will help. Thirdly: So will Peter. Let him._

_ Ask about Lydia. _

Stiles flips it over. There’s a doodle on the back, but no more writing.

Okay. So. It’s not _nothing_, but if Stiles is being honest, it’s a little lacking. He thinks he could’ve done better. In fact, when he goes back, he’s going to do so much better—like write out every single thing he has to do instead of a piece of crap vague note like this.

He looks at Deaton, who has opened the second envelope and has apparently finished reading it. He’s perched on the edge of his desk expectantly. Peter is still leaning, but there’s sharp interest in every angle of his body.

He’s got nothing else. Stiles says, “What’s happened to Lydia?”

Peter frowns. Deaton raises his eyebrows. “Well. We haven’t heard from her and I think Scott is starting to get worried. She’s investigating something odd on the east coast reported by a local alpha. We received this message from her yesterday morning.” He pulls out his phone and reads, “‘Strange events reported in the forest near town. Suspect witch or druid. Going in tonight, talk later.’ No follow up, which is very unlike her.”

“So she’s in trouble,” Stiles says.

Deaton hesitates. “Probably, yes. At the very least, having someone check in on her would be beneficial."

Peter rolls his eyes. “Send Scott.”

“He’s the alpha and needs to be here,” Deaton replies.

“Someone else then.” Peter gestures to Stiles. “He’s got his own problems. Get the time travel thing resolved, then we can discuss cross-country pack rescues.”

“I can’t.”

“Typical,” Peter mutters.

Stiles pulls a chair to him and settles into it, holding his note tightly. “Why not?”

Deaton holds up his envelope. Stiles can now see _For Deaton_ on it in his own handwriting. “I’m not sure what’s on yours, Stiles, but you—that is, older you told me this time travel issue will be resolved by helping Lydia. I’m to answer any questions you have about her and about what you’re going to encounter.” He smiles. “I’m not to answer any questions about Peter.”

Peter barks a laugh and Stiles scoffs. “Seriously? Why? This—” pointing at him “—is the part that makes the least sense. Helping Lydia so that I can get back? Cool. On board. _So_ on board. But _him_? How did this even happen?”

Deaton shrugs helplessly. Peter grins. “Darling, love of my life, stars in my sky, joy of my world, you started it.”

Stiles is honestly outraged. If Peter is going to lie about this, he might as well _try_. “Like hell. How dare you.”

Peter looks into the distance. “It was a Tuesday night, perhaps a Wednesday. Derek was having one of those interminable pack movie nights, and you’d brought decent beer over. You handed me one, then told me you’d been trialling wolfsbane infusion and would I mind testing some of your brews over dinner. It was a very smooth pickup, and I was touched, flattered, nay, _swooning_ over being so singled out, so chosen, by a boy barely out of college—”

Stiles raises one finger. “You. Shut up. I mean it. And you”—to Deaton—“spill.”

Deaton glances between the two of them, then tentatively says, “Time travel paradoxes shouldn’t be trifled with, Stiles. You survived it and told me not to talk about Peter, and that’s what I have to do.” He checks the note. “Here’s what I can say to you: you work well together and you keep not just Beacon Hills and San Francisco free of most supernatural problems, you keep most of the west coast calm too. Stiles, I know your skills particularly are in high demand by the supernatural community as a result.”

Wow. _Wow._ Stiles has never been in demand for anything except research and Stilinski hugs. That . . . actually doesn’t sound so bad. His future job seems kickass. “What do I do?”

“You’re a powerful emissary and mage,” Deaton says. “This Lydia situation is very much in your remit, despite . . . things.” Peter coughs deliberately and there’s now a strange tension in the room.

Stiles looks between them, then says slowly, “Her number isn’t in my phone. What’s up with that?”

Peter gestures to Deaton. Deaton hesitates, then says, “She doesn’t speak to you anymore. She hasn’t in quite some time.”

What? That’s . . . Stiles literally can’t compute that. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I can,” Peter says. “She didn’t and doesn’t like me.”

Stiles frowns. “No one likes you.”

Peter turns to him. “You did. You _do_.” He’s staring intently now, arms folded, and the half-smirk on his face that drives Stiles nuts. It’s such a _weird_ expression. It doesn’t look genuine—nothing about Peter’s stance suggests the lofty boredom Stiles is used to from him.

Huh. Peter is uncomfortable.

“She doesn’t like me being with you?” Stiles asks. “Great, that’s two of us.”

Peter’s jaw tenses. “No. She never quite got over that whole”—he waves his hand—“resurrection, banshee-awakening thing.”

Stiles stares him down. “No shit, Peter. It’s not exactly a small thing. It’s not like you ate a piece of cake she was saving for herself.”

“Her issue is with me, not you,” Peter snaps. “She dropped you and she didn’t care what that did to you. I did. _I_ helped you. You tried to keep the friendship but she completely ignored you and you suffered and it was awful to go through.” He blinks. “Oh shit, you knew she was going to do it the whole time. Fuck. You tried to stop it and you couldn’t.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s the first time Stiles has seen him look actually discomfited. “You and I stopped asking about her years ago, Stiles. You don’t owe her anything.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to make of all this. “Is that why she’s on the east coast?”

Deaton says, “She lives there now, but I believe it’s for the work opportunities more than any personal pack issues. She practices law, among other things.”

Stiles can’t imagine any future where he and Lydia aren’t friends. Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s confused. He does get why she has issues with Peter—of course he does, who doesn’t have issues with Peter? But to drop their _friendship_ over it? Really? Stiles doesn’t get it. That doesn’t seem like her. The thought she’d exit his life over his choice of partner does hurt.

“I guess it’s time to clear the air,” he says.

Peter actually makes a growling noise. “You’re going to be hurt and disappointed again.”

Stiles glares at him. “Time travel fix. Remember that. Also, I decide what I do.” Peter flashes his eyes at him. Stiles turns to Deaton. “So where is she exactly?”

Deaton tells him she was visiting a town in Maine when she went quiet. The local alpha reported in from a fishing village on the coast.

“Maine?” Stiles is aghast. “I have to go to _Maine_ to fix this? It’s the literal opposite side of the country.”

“Could be worse,” Peter says. “Could be Florida.”

“Florida at least has Disneyland,” Stiles fires back.

“I do suggest leaving sooner rather than later,” Deaton interjects. “I’m not clear exactly what’s going on, but people have been behaving strangely, there have been disappearances, and lots of dead animals.”

“On it,” Peter says.

Stiles asks about the rest of the pack. Scott is the alpha of half of California. They’ve expanded the pack and created ties and treaties across the country. Derek drifts between Beacon Hills, San Francisco, New York, and Colombia where Cora still lives. Kira moved back to Japan years ago, where she started a mysterious new training program and now sends periodic enigmatic updates. Jackson and Danny move between Los Angeles and London, Erica and Boyd work in Beacon Hills and have a family, Isaac is in Des Moines, Liam’s currently investigating an incident in Kansas, and Chris Argent is, quote, “around.”

“And who’s the president?” Stiles asks.

Deaton smiles. “Does it matter?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“It’s three terms away from your timeframe,” Peter says. “You’ve never heard of her.”

“You’ll probably gather news as you go,” Deaton says. “It's best to forget what you learn while you’re here, in order to reduce potential disruptions to time.”

Yeah, no, Stiles is totally going to remember certain things and place certain bets. He holds up his phone. “And what’s new tech-wise? I noticed the electric cars, but can these things read my mind yet?”

“No, but mine has booked us plane tickets to Portland in Maine tomorrow,” Peter says.

Stiles turns to him. “‘Us’? What _us_?”

Peter raises one eyebrow. “You thought you’re going alone? Adorable.”

Stiles is abruptly so so done with Peter. Like, who the fuck does he think he is? Sarcastic, sanctimonious know-it-all with _no empathy_ for _anything_ that Stiles has been through in the last twelve hours, just what the hell does he think he’s doing? “You know what? _You_ have been _less_ than helpful and if you think for _one second_ that you’re coming with me, ooooooh have I got news for you, asshole.” He feels electric with anger—his skin’s buzzing—wait, his skin is actually so tight he feels like he could actually explode. That’s not right, what the fuck, what does he do—

Peter grabs his hand. “Breathe, Stiles.”

Stiles sucks in a shaky breath, unsure what’s happening. The buzzing in his skin turns down a notch, loosening his body. He draws in another.

“That’s it,” Peter murmurs.

“What is this?” Stiles asks. It’s a strange energy running through him, and it’s lowering now.

“You’re a mage,” Deaton reminds him. “You’re sparking out—letting your emotions rile up your magic. You started training properly after your return from now. Breathe deep, long, slow breaths. Calm down. Remember your anchor.”

_His_ anchor? Since when did Stiles need an anchor? Stiles shelves that for another time and does what they say. His grip on Peter’s hand is tight. It helps.

Eventually he’s calmer and feels significantly better. Not so hot or buzzy anymore. He drops Peter’s hand and his insides roil.

“There’s magic in me,” he says.

“Yes.” Deaton seems proud. “A lot of it.”

That’s immensely helpful. Stiles could actually be _useful_ to Lydia. Not that he knows what the hell he’s doing, but given he’s been handling supernatural fuckwittery since high school in that mindframe, he figured he’ll get through whatever he needs to do. But having magic? Being powerful? No longer being the weak squishy human? Fuck yeah.

“And you do know how to control it,” Peter adds. If he’s annoyed at Stiles, he doesn’t show it. “You’ve been training and perfecting your control for years.”

“Not in _my_ timeline,” Stiles reminds him.

“Your body knows,” Peter says.

“One: creepy. So so creepy. Two: still not helpful.”

Peter takes his hand again. “This is what I mean. I can help you.”

Stiles stares at him, utterly lost. “O-kay?” If he means with the magic, Stiles doesn’t get it. Unless . . . “Oh no. You’re my anchor, aren’t you?”

Peter grins.

Looking at him, Stiles really has to admit that it’s fucking unfair Peter has aged as well as he has. He has to be in his forties now, maybe even pushing fifty, and he barely looks any different. Especially those blue, blue eyes. Not that Stiles has _ever_ noticed them, or cared, or _felt_ anything when Peter turns those icy depths on him—he hasn’t, not ever, how dare anyone insinuate otherwise—but he’s not blind. God. Peter must get away with so much just by being so good-looking.

Maybe Stiles can see the appeal. _Maybe_.

“You’re staring, dear,” Peter says.

Stiles pulls his hand free. “Just amazed by how much hair you’ve kept, old man.”

“That’s not all I’ve kept.”

“If you could keep the flirting to a minimum, I’d appreciate it,” Deaton says drily. “Stiles, you have a library in your apartment, which I recommend visiting before you go. You have notebooks and texts which might prove helpful.”

Stiles points at him. “See that, Peter? That is what helpfulness looks like. _That_ is a truly excellent suggestion. Thank you, Deaton. Will they tell me how to get back?”

Deaton shrugs. “I don’t know. I only have your instructions to go on. As I mentioned, the fact that we have these notes is a promising indicator of success.”

Stiles glances down at his note. A note which he wrote to himself. A note which he wrote to himself a full decade before this happened. Or a year after it happened. Fuck time travel.

Wait a second.

“If I’m here,” he says, “where’s Old Stiles?”

“Stop calling yourself that,” Peter mutters. His arms are folded again.

Deaton looks over at Peter. “I’m honestly not sure. Perhaps he’s in there with you, or he’s in the past.”

His thirty-two-year-old self in his twenty-year-old body. His thirty-two-year-old self that’s apparently in love with Peter, in his twenty-year-old body. Oh shit.

“Don’t look so scared,” Peter says. “I doubt anyone will notice the difference. You haven’t changed that much.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Lie. Total lie. I have tattoos. I’m so much hotter now.”

Peter smirks. “I’d say you’ve stayed about the same in attractiveness.”

The fucking nerve. Stiles opens his mouth to tell Peter they’re officially getting divorced but Deaton interrupts. “If you don’t have any more questions, you should get going. I’m available by phone, should you need me.”

“Could you talk to my dad and Melissa?” Stiles asks. “They think I have amnesia.”

“Certainly.”

“One more thing: when I gave these to you, what did I say?” He holds up his note.

Deaton thinks for a moment. “You told me the specific circumstances under which I had to open these. More than that, I’m not sure I should share.”

“I didn’t say why I’d told you and Peter, but not my dad?”

Deaton shook his head. “No. I’m sure you had your reasons.”

And with that, Stiles leaves the clinic, note in his pocket and Peter at his side and the beginnings of a plan to get out of here.


	6. Chapter 6

Outside dusk has fallen and the air is getting cool. Stiles heads for the car, mind churning. He’s glad he has a direction to follow now, something concrete to do that will resolve this situation. He hopes Lydia is all right.

He’s also really tired. He does a quick calculation and realises he’s been awake for twenty hours, if he counts the day of researching and attempting the gryphon spell. That was this morning. Then he drove from San Francisco to Beacon Hills and had his world turned upside down. It’s truly been a long day.

Beside him, Peter is quiet.

Stiles is . . . not glad, exactly, that Peter is there, but now that he has two people helping him, he feels better. Scott will also be on board once he hears from Deaton. But it’s bugging him just how intertwined his life and Peter’s seem to be now. It looks like he isn’t going to shake Peter loose anytime soon. Peter’s invested. No wonder Peter drove down after him—if he’s Stiles’ anchor, then their bond goes deep.

And then there’s the husband thing.

Which Stiles still can’t get his head around. Okay, objectively Peter is good-looking and always has been and maybe Stiles can admit that he’s always kind of thought that in the special place between his common sense and his dick. But is he marriage material? Nope.

And how would Peter end up marrying _him_? Stiles is a treasure, but the kind of treasure that would reel Peter in and lock him down? Unlikely. Stiles doesn’t get the appeal from Peter’s point of view.

Like, how does the dynamic even work? Peter doesn’t seem overly concerned by any of today’s events. Apart from that outburst about Lydia in the clinic and driving down after Stiles, he’s been calmer than everyone except Deaton.

“Deaton will have spoken with your father, Scott and Melissa by the time we return,” Peter says when they reach the car. “We can have dinner then head back to San Francisco.”

Stiles stops in his tracks. “Go back? It took me like six hours to drive here today. No way are we driving back tonight.”

Peter gazes back impassively. “I did it in four and a half, and we’ve both done worse.”

“You head back then. I’m exhausted and emotionally compromised. I’m staying here tonight.”

“_You’re_ emotionally compromised?” Abruptly Peter is looming over Stiles, intense and angry. He backs up and hits the car. Peter keeps coming in, closer, until he’s got Stiles caged against the car and is inches away. “I have had a _very_ high number of disturbingly lethal scenarios running through my head _all day_ explaining your disappearance. Then I discover you’ve actually regressed over a decade and lost all your memories of us because you haven’t made them yet, _and_ you didn’t tell me everything I needed to know to fix it.” Peter’s eyes start to glow blue. “And now we have to suspend our lives to help someone who hasn’t thought about you in years and doesn’t deserve your help, just to get you back to your timeline. If anyone is allowed to be _emotionally compromised_ today, it’s _me_.”

Stiles dutifully ignores the scared-horny feelings Peter’s proximity is giving him and glares. “Yeah, well, here’s a small reminder that this is _not_ about you.”

Peter’s eyes are now burning bright. He cups Stiles’ cheek. “Stiles. You’re mine and I’m yours. We promised. I’m involved.”

Stiles has realised this, but he’s not going down without a fight. “There’s that ‘we’ again. Why does that keep coming up? If this messes your life up so much, stay. No one’s making you go with me.”

Peter snarls at him. “I remember you being smarter than this in college. You asked me to help you when today came, and I promised I would. I keep my promises, Stiles. Especially to you.” One finger is rubbing along Stiles’ jaw and it’s disconcerting.

He jerks his head away, making Peter scowl. “You know,” Stiles says, “if you’re really down with helping me get back, what’s this growly grumpy act for, Petey?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Because I bet it’s not just about helping Lydia. You know what I think? I think Old Stiles gave you the basic outline of this time travel thing and you thought you knew how it was going to play out.” Stiles watches him carefully. “You thought you’d run the show and save little lost me and be the hero. But no. He didn’t give either of us the full story. I don’t know shit and neither do you. Not only is he gone and I’m here, he’s sent us running after someone you don’t like, and you _have to do it_.” He makes his eyes go wide. “Oh dang. Looks like you just got played. _By me_. Am I close?”

Peter’s gone into beta shift by the time Stiles has finished talking. He glowers at Stiles. Mental fist pump, because fuck yeah, Stiles just nailed this guy.

Well. Figuratively.

They stand there staring at each other and breathing a little heavily.

The words in Stiles’ note come back to him. Peter can help, so he has to figure out how to get along with him. It’s a no-brainer. But Stiles isn’t sure he can deal with Peter’s wolfy brand of touchy-feelyness.

When Peter’s face start to relax and smooth out, back to human, Stiles decides that if Peter can get his shit under control—despite not answering questions he doesn’t like hearing, _so_ predictable—then maybe Stiles could at least try to get along with him.

Peter eventually says, “For future reference, I don’t appreciate how you’ve chosen to handle this. I should know exactly what needs to happen.”

“Noted!” Stiles is totally going to dismiss that. He’s never going to forget this. Peter, one-upped. Old Stiles played a _long game_ and he didn’t even get to see the results.

Uh. Wait. He did. Before he even started.

This is hilarious, but Stiles is over this time travel bullshit already.

“So,” he starts, “how about we start over?”

Peter raises eyebrows he hasn’t regained yet. Ah, the classic Hale trait. “With our history?”

“If you’re going to help me and we have to work together, maybe it would be helpful to just rewind for a second.” Stiles gestures between them. “Set the scene. Remember what we were like when I was in college. I was hardly around. I liked eating all of Derek’s pizza. We hung out in his loft because he was the only pack member with a place of his own that was big enough for all of us. You lurked and helped us fight the bad things and made sarcastic noises. Remember? You didn’t give a shit about me, you just liked making fun of the squishy human. That’s where I’m operating from.”

Peter narrows his eyes. Then something changes—he relaxes, lets his posture change, smiles slowly. “Tut, tut, Stiles. You’re leaving something important out. I remember that time too. I wouldn’t say the pack was my choice of companionship, but you all have your strengths. I enjoyed our little moments, and I know what you felt every time I teased you.” He sniffs ostentatiously. “Yup. Same scent. Still as sweet. Quite flattering.”

Stiles feels his face heat up. “Hey. It’s impolite to comment on that.”

“Werewolf, sweetheart. I always knew.”

Jesus, really? “Scott and Derek _assured_ me everyone smelt like sexual frustration all the time.”

“When you were a teenager, yes. When you were home from college?” Peter’s eyebrows have returned. “Nope. It spiked around me. I noticed and I did give a shit. You just weren’t looking.”

Yeah fucking right. Stiles knows for a fact that the pack would’ve said something. _Erica_ would’ve said something. “What the heck ever.”

“You don’t have hide your attraction from me. You didn’t have to then and you definitely don’t have to now.” Peter moves in closer.

Oh god. Oh god. Abort mission. “Look.” Stiles pushes at one of Peter’s arms. It doesn’t budge. “This situation isn’t optimal. Okay? I’m not happy. You’re not happy. But if I did this once already with you, we can do it this time. I go back to my time and you get your husband back. I’ll stop complaining about this whole _us_ thing, but you need to back off on the whole—” he gestures “—possessive creeperwolf vibe thing.”

Peter’s eyes flare. “You're not two different people. _You_ are my husband." He inhales. "You smell the same.”

Stiles slaps Peter’s shoulder. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s too much. Slow your roll. Work with me, Peter.”

Peter leans in closer, eyes on Stiles’, until he ducks down and buries his face in Stiles’ neck. He exhales, then rubs his check over Stiles’ skin. Stiles holds himself still. He only breathes when Peter brushes up the side of his face and pauses there. He presses one hand to Stiles’ hair, runs his fingers through it.

Stiles has been involved in pack scenting enough to recognise what Peter’s doing, but this is definitely new for them. In Stiles’ timeline, Peter never touched him. It feels good. Not that Stiles will ever admit that.

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” Peter murmurs into his ear, “and you’re mine. I’m not going to back away from you or pretend you’re something you’re not to me. But,” and he doesn’t sound happy, “given the circumstances, I can, as you put it, slow my roll.”

Stiles pretends he doesn’t have goosebumps. “Awesome.” His voice cracks. Dammit.

Peter finally steps back, leaving a dizzying amount of space between them. The places where he touched Stiles feel warm. Around them the evening deepens into night. Stiles feels displaced and on edge, like he's somewhere completely separate from the real world. In front of him, Peter looks human once more, unshaken and calm. Stiles replays what just happened and swallows.

"We're agreed then," Peter says, as if their little moment against the car didn't happen. “We’re having dinner with your father, then heading back. We’re not staying overnight.”

Oh hell no. Stiles isn't going to miss out on Old Dad Stilinski time. “We're not agreed on shit, Peter. We're staying.”

Peter flashes his eyes again. “No. We’re not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor side note: I rushed the title of this fic and regret it. Every time I look at it, it bugs me *deep sigh* [edit: I'll change it once I finish the fic. Thanks to commenters for letting me talk it out a little here!]


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles wakes up early the next morning and smiles at the sight of his room. There’s a brief moment when he thinks it was all a terrible dream—the spell went wrong, knocked him out, he was taken home to sleep it off, no harm done—then he realises how warm he is and that someone’s sleeping in the bed behind him, and the brief moment of happiness is crushed forever.

He turns over and sees Peter asleep behind him. His pulse increases—preeetty sure this wasn’t in the slow-the-roll agreement, given they hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements.

Well. Technically Stiles hadn’t let him discuss them, so it figures Peter would do what he wanted.

Last night they returned to the Stilinski place and Stiles explained the situation—again—to his dad, Melissa and Scott. They seemed satisfied with Deaton’s calm acceptance of it, but Stiles was checked over again by Melissa when she left after dinner.

Scott was happy to hear that the answer to Stiles’ time displacement issue was finding Lydia. “Two birds with one stone,” he’d said. “I’ll contact Alpha Bowen and tell her you’re coming.”

After dinner, Stiles had sat down with his dad while Peter washed dishes—voluntarily! Who _was_ he—and had a heart-to-heart.

“I know you’ve faced so many supernatural problems,” John started, “and you’re more than capable of handling yourself, but I want you to know that on this particular occasion, I wish it wasn’t you.”

“Dad—”

“I know, you have to. I’m glad Peter is going with you. For all my concerns when you started dating, I can’t deny he’s looked out for you. And me.” John glanced at the kitchen then lowered his voice. “I’m guessing this is weird for you?”

“_So_ weird.”

“Try to roll with it. By the way, your older self doesn’t take any crap from him. I don’t know if you need to hear it, but I give you permission to be a bastard when you have to. Okay?”

Stiles nodded. “Got it, dad. Full bastard tendencies are unleashed.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. I might be retired, but I still have contacts.” John had hesitated, then said, “And when you go back, maybe consider telling me that this happened to you. I know the gryphon attack you were talking about. I was proud of you for the way you handled yourself, but I noticed you were kinda off in the weeks afterwards. I remember that. You said you were fine, so I let it go.”

Stiles had shrugged. “I haven’t gone through it yet, but I can’t imagine not telling you about this. My best guess is that a good reason prevented me.”

John nodded. “I’ll ask the older you when he’s back.”

The patented Stilinski hug had happened, some more chat about how John was doing and the pottery he was throwing in retirement, then Stiles had gone upstairs and crashed.

Now it’s the morning and okay, Stiles knows he forced the leaving issue. He wonders if Peter saw this as an opportunity to scentmark him or be deliberately creepy—wait, why is he even questioning it? Of course Peter saw this would be both and went for it.

When Stiles looks over at him, he sees Peter’s face is soft and relaxed. He looks younger, gentler, when he’s sleeping. Stiles isn’t sure what to do with that information. Instead he looks back at the room and plans the next steps.

Tries to, anyway. He’s just so aware of the warm body behind him. It’s not Stiles’ first time sharing a bed—he's hooked up at college—but there’s something different about knowing the other person was a supernatural creature. He has a wolf in his bed and that wolf was comfortable enough to sleep soundly. It’s . . . kinda cool that Peter feels that relaxed around him. Stiles wouldn’t ever have predicted that.

He tries to gauge the light. His phone died the previous day and his dad doesn’t have a spare charger. He can see Peter’s phone on the bedside table, but doesn’t want to reach for it. Knowing Peter, there’s an alarm set anyway. By the dimness of the light coming through the window, Stiles thinks it’s very early morning. They need to drive back, pack for Maine, and head to the airport. Stiles really wants to see this library that’s supposedly at the apartment. He doesn’t remember seeing it on the tour yesterday.

And, while he’s thinking about it, he feels better. He’s slept, he’s in a familiar place, and he has a plan to get back. Things are going to be okay.

Then Peter inhales deeply and presses up against his back. His hand slips over Stiles’ stomach, heading rapidly south, and he says sleepily, “Good morning, you,” against Stiles’ hair.

Stiles launches out of bed so quickly he hits his hip against his old desk. “Jesus,” he gasps from the other side of the room.

Peter sits up and blinks at him, then lies back down with a groan. “Aw, fuck, it was all real.”

Stiles drags the desk chair between him and the bed. “No! So much no! Oh my _god_.”

Peter throws one arm across his eyes. “In fairness, you usually have the complete opposite reaction.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “You_ take that back._”

Peter sighs, then his mouth curls in a smile and he takes his arm away to pat the covers. “Come here.”

Stiles grips the chair harder and hisses, “I am going to pee on _everything_ in your apartment.”

“It’s your apartment too, honey.” Peter scrubs at his eyes, then sits up and regards Stiles blearily. His hair is all askew. It’s not cute at all. “If this is what you’re like with me now, I can’t imagine how you ever got laid.”

“I have zero issues getting laid.” It’s surprisingly true. He showed up at college and just talked to people and suddenly people were interested. Men and women like him. Turns out personality counts for a lot. He’s had a good time at college.

“But you haven’t had a long-term relationship,” Peter says. “Not from what I remember.”

That is also true. “College is for finding yourself,” Stiles says.

“College is also the easiest way people meet their life partners.” Peter smiles lazily. “Of course, you and I had that covered much earlier.”

Stiles realises he’s standing in boxers and a t-shirt that’s a size too small (he took what he found in his old dresser). Peter looks him over like he’s wearing nothing at all.

Ugh, Peter knows exactly what he looks like wearing nothing. Stiles resists the urge to run into his closet.

“And what exactly about how we met was promising?” he asks. “You bit my best friend.”

Peter nods then yawns. “Yup. Still wish I’d bitten you.”

Stiles scoffs. “Seriously? Is that what you say at parties when we’re together? ‘How did you two meet?’ ‘Well, I was insane and bit his best friend in the middle of the woods at night, turning him into a werewolf.’ Yeah, so romantic.”

Peter rests his chin on one hand. “No. I tell them about how you spotted me rescuing an abandoned kitten in the rain, then, charmed by my selflessness and hidden soft side, bought me coffee as a thank you and sign of appreciation. Free to be myself without putting up a front, I fell for you and we started dating. None of your friends believed you because I was the bad boy of the school, always skipping class and smoking behind the PE shed—”

“Oh my fucking god, I’m going to throw this chair at you.”

Peter smiles, but Stiles thinks it’s a little forced. “God. I don’t miss this at all.”

“What? My quickfire wit?”

Peter scoffs. “That’s as juvenile as it’s ever been. No. The distrust.”

Stiles pokes himself in the leg to remind himself that yes, this is real, and yes, this conversation is happening. “Are you surprised? You? Have you _met_ you?”

“I’m not _surprised_, just . . . regretful.”

Stiles shoves the chair away. “Seriously? You bit Scott. You bit Lydia. You hurt Derek. You disappeared when the alpha pack showed up. You screw with us _all the time_.” He realises he’s getting louder and brings the volume back down. “That’s a _ton_ of water that’s not under the bridge.”

Peter gets out of bed. His form is still lean, muscular, and belies power with every move—which Stiles sees in clear HD, up-close and personal, because all Peter is wearing are boxer briefs and a silver chain around his neck. Peter runs his hand through his hair as he prowls towards Stiles, eyes fixed on his. “Funny how the pack never talked about those things. _You_ never mentioned it. I always assumed you got over it like everyone else.” He stops in front of Stiles and breathes in deeply. “I certainly did."

Stiles doesn’t want to know what Peter just smelled on him. He holds up one finger. “_No_. I’m so not over it, asshole.”

“Well then.” Peter kisses his fingertip. “Tell me what I can do to make it better.”

Stiles gapes at him, then at his finger like it betrayed him. “We talked about this.”

Peter grins. “Yes, we did.”

“You said you’d rein it in.”

Peter leans forward, and Stiles rears back. “I didn’t say I’d stop completely. You don’t seem to mind _too_ much.” He sniffs.

Stiles’ heartbeat is going crazy. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

Peter stares at him for a few beats, turns away abruptly. “Agreed.” He bends over, picks up his shirt, and pulls it on. “I can’t wait until this spell is over,” he mutters.

Finally, something they agree on.

Peter’s phone alarm rings out and they begin preparing to leave.

Despite the early hour, John rises to see them off. Stiles hugs him for a long time, trying and failing not to think about the difference twelve years makes. Peter and John hug—which is beyond weird for Stiles to watch—then Stiles and Peter get into their separate cars and start driving back to San Francisco, Peter trailing unerringly behind Stiles.

*

The first break involves coffee and watching the dawn break properly over the California hills and the highway. It’s pretty. Stiles thinks he should take road trips more often once he’s back. Peter doesn’t say anything at all, just sips and takes in the view.

*

The second break involves picking up food to go. There’s precious limited choice at the pitstop, and Stiles has chosen muffins and breakfast burritos when Peter dumps them all and loads him up with fruit and cereal bars. “You won’t get indigestion this way,” he tells him.

Stiles wants to grind his teeth. “I don’t get indigestion _at all_.”

Peter fixes him with a knowing look. “You’re in your thirties—you do now. Fruit. The last thing we need is for you to be even slower than you are now.”

Stiles buys the fruit, then drives at twenty miles below the speed limit until the next break point.

*

They glare at each other, Peter with folded arms and Stiles holding his second cup of coffee. Behind each of them, their cars are charging.

“We have a flight to catch,” Peter snaps.

“So we do,” Stiles says.

“If we keep up this pace, your choice will be between catching this flight without gear and your notes, or waiting for the next one tomorrow with gear and your notes.” Peter leans forward. “And you’d be paying for it, obviously.”

“Oh, how _terrible_.”

“Perhaps not for us, but I suspect Lydia might think otherwise,” Peter says.

Stiles narrows his eyes.

*

Peter grins as he comes back from the bathroom at their final pitstop.

“Stop it,” Stiles says. He opens his car door. “Ready to go?”

“How lovely to see you so _eager_, for once.” Peter heads for his car

“That peeing thing is still on the table,” Stiles yells after him.

*

They arrive at the apartment with an hour to spare.


	8. Chapter 8

Inside the apartment, Stiles heads directly to the bedroom, followed closely by Peter. He ignores the bed and makes for the shiny wardrobe. Throwing it open, he finds a clear division: on one side there are crisp shirts, suit jackets, leather jackets, neatly folded pants, a drawer for ties and belts, a hanger of scarves, and endless black socks; on the other side there are graphic T-shirts, jeans, button-downs, Henleys, some flannel, one (1) suit jacket, hoodies, and multi-coloured socks.

“Let’s guess whose side is whose,” Stiles says.

Peter opens another division and pulls out two duffel bags. “Stop being a smartass and pack.” He tosses one bag to Stiles and Stiles gets to work.

He doesn’t feel any connection to this clothing, so he shoves a variety of things into his bag, plus extra warm stuff for Maine.

He’s eyeing up a pair of sunglasses when Peter makes a noise and bends over. He stands back up with something shiny in his hand. “Stiles. What’s your ring doing on the floor here?”

Stiles freezes, then tosses the sunnies into his sock drawer. “How strange! Is that where it was? How could that have happened?”

Peter turns to him. “Put it on.”

Stiles folds his arms. “I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

Peter advances on him. “Stiles.”

Stiles backs away. “Soooo, I’ll just find those notes Deaton mentioned and yeah—” He runs out of the room, then realises there aren’t many places this library could be. He checks the kitchen, just to be sure, then returns to the living room. It’s as he left it—wide, spacious, modern. Yellow ottoman. Shag rug. And a door he missed on the other side of the dining table.

Through it, he finds a room he immediately likes. It’s small, but that might be due to how packed it is. There’s one narrow window that runs from floor to ceiling, bordered by plants and a blind at the top. Near the window is a desk holding a desktop computer and a mess of notes and papers. Bookshelves line the other walls and they’re filled with books, notebooks, hard drives, DVDs, bottles, and miscellaneous extras, such as a tiny, toothy skull perched next to a book on gardening for food and fun.

The best thing about the room is the message chalked onto the floor in the centre of the room: STILES, TAKE THESE ---> pointing to a box filled with books. The message is in Stiles’ handwriting.

Trippy, but effective. Stiles could kiss his future self.

He finds the chalk and scrawls _Thanks XXX _under the message, then picks up the box and returns to the bedroom.

Peter has moved onto deliberating over two blue V-necks. “We’re not done,” he says. Stiles ignores him and begins adding the books to his duffel bag. When Peter looks over, he actually lowers the shirts. “Do you really need all those books?”

“Do you really need two of the same shirt?” Stiles asks.

Peter arches one eyebrow and places one of the shirts back into the closet. He starts rolling up the other. “How did you choose those so quickly?”

“They were left for me.” Stiles is hoping his future self knew what he was doing when he collected the books. As he packs them, he finds one notebook with a post-it on the front saying READ ME FIRST. He puts that on top.

Peter pauses in laying out jeans on the bed. “How organised.”

Stiles remembers yesterday morning—it was only yesterday, holy fuck—and how he’d moved through the apartment. Phone, keys, bag. All ready and easy to find. He turns to the bathroom and goes in for toiletries.

It’s incredible. There’s a huge high-tech shower with multiple jets, and a deep wide bathtub, fluffy towels on heated racks, plenty of cupboards, and two sinks. He eyes them both, then aim for the one with a dinosaur toothbrush and picks that up. Next to it is a plastic bag filled with travel-sized toiletries.

Seems like Old Stiles is _very_ organised.

He returns to his duffel bag, throws the toiletries in and wrestles the zip closed.

Peter is now comparing two sets of black socks. He has a literal drawer full of them. Stiles can’t watch this anymore and drags his duffel bag into the hallway. As he’s now done, he decides he’s earned a snack. He heads to the kitchen and goes rifling.

His future self is not only organised, he’s also healthy. Stiles finds vegetables and tofu in the fridge as well as beer, and the freezer is stocked with homemade stuff in Tupperware. In the cupboards there are spices and herbs plus lentils, rice, couscous and so on. He really has to root around to find anything good, and he only scores when he goes into sneaky mode and pulls aside the cleaning stuff under the sink: Cheetos and Oreos, hot damn.

He’s perched on the counter and finishing off the Oreos when Peter comes through, a phone charger in one hand. He stops as soon as he sees the packet in Stiles’ hands. “Where the hell were those?”

Stiles is about to tell him when his brain kicks in. “In the cupboards.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “I don’t have to hear your heartbeat to know that’s a lie.” He stalks forward. “You’ll get a stomach ache.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “From Oreos? Unlikely.”

“In that quantity, yes.” Peter stops in front of him. “You harass your father for _years_ about his diet, and I end up harassing you about yours.”

Stiles pauses mid-crunch to look at his belly. He’s taken stock. There’s no excess anything about him. It doesn’t _feel_ like his cholesterol levels are high. “I don’t see the problem.”

Peter places the charger on the counter and digs his hands into his pockets. His hips align with Stiles’ knees and it’s a matter of inches between their bodies. Peter leans in. “There’s nothing wrong with how you look. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.” He bites the half-eaten cookie out of Stiles’ hand and chews.

Stiles watches this, sure to keep his chill. “You eat Oreos.”

“It’s not all I eat,” Peter leers.

Stiles smirks. “I’ll bet.”

Stiles’ hand is taken and cool metal slipped over his ring finger. Stiles jumps, the packet in his lap rattling, and Peter grabs his arm to keep him still. “Stiles—”

“No.” Stiles pulls it off and then Peter holds his wrists tight. Stiles’ knees are pressing tightly into Peter's hips, and they glare at each other.

“It’s only a ring,” Peter says.

“If it’s only a ring then I don’t have to wear it,” Stiles shoots back.

“You said you’d stop complaining about us being an item.”

“I didn’t say I’d stop completely.” Stiles waits for that to land then adds, “Besides, I don’t remember wearing a piece of metal being part of the bargain.”

Peter frowns.

Stiles pulls against Peter’s hands, the ring held between two fingers. Plain silver platinum, burnished from wear, and while Stiles isn’t freaked out by it like the first time he saw it, he still doesn’t see the value in wearing it. “I get it’s important to you,” he says, “but it doesn’t seem right to wear it when I’m not the one who married you.”

Peter sighs. “But you _are_, Stiles.” His grip on Stiles’ wrists gentles—and Stiles realises something. Peter isn’t wearing a ring.

Stiles raises his arm so that he drags up Peter’s left hand. “What the fuck? _You_ aren’t wearing one either.”

Peter lets one of Stiles’ wrists go and points at his throat. There’s a silver chain there which Stiles hasn’t really noticed before, and Peter pulls it out from under his shirt. At the end of it is a ring. “Not a good idea to put an unbending piece of metal around any part of a shapeshifter,” Peter says. “I wear this at all times. And you only took this off when you were scared of dirtying or losing it.”

Stiles feels his jaw clench. “Still not seeing why I should wear this.”

Peter shakes Stiles’ wrist. “Stiles. It means something to me and to you in the future. If we fix this time travel spell, you won’t be happy to come back and find this not on you. I mean that.”

Stiles glances at the ring. The thought of putting it on just makes him so uncomfortable.

“For me, Stiles.” Peter seems calm, but there’s an intensity in his voice that’s new. He’s not quite meeting Stiles’ eyes, and there’s a . . . Stiles could almost call it a _shyness_ about him. “If not for me, then for you.” He hesitates. “Please.”

There isn’t even a hint of sarcasm. He doesn’t seem to be lying. If he is, it’s the most sincere acting Stiles has ever seen.

The thing is, Stiles gets it. He does. Rings, bonds, symbolism, etc. He still can’t do it though. Not without meaning it. It would be lying if he did wear it.

The chain around Peter’s neck catches Stiles’ eye. He jerks his chin at it. “You got another one of those?”

“The chain?” Peter thinks. “Maybe.”

“I’ll do the same as you. Around the neck.” Stiles clears his throat, it’s gone all thick for some reason. “That way it’s on me, but I don’t feel like I’m . . . stepping in.”

Peter’s mouth thins, but he nods abruptly and lets him go. “Okay.” He taps the charger. “There’s your charger.” He leaves the kitchen.

Stiles looks at the ring, shiny and full of a relationship he’s only beginning to comprehend, then stuffs another Oreo into his mouth.

When Peter returns, he also brings snow coats. He hands the chain over to Stiles, who threads the ring onto it then hangs it around his neck. He puts the Oreos away and they leave for the airport without saying much more.


	9. Chapter 9

The drive over isn’t great. Stiles starts charging his phone and Peter puts on music Stiles has never heard before. It’s a different vibe to the pop music Stiles is used to, breezy and impatient. Same songs though, just different lovelorn singers.

Stiles watches the scenery out the window and wonders about how this is his life. Time travel, magic, werewolves, marriage. Somewhere there’s a universe where he’s a normal college student whose biggest worry is whether he’s studied enough for his next test. This seems to like pushing his ideas of normal and expected life events to the very boundaries.

Not that marriage is so weird, but Stiles is honest with himself—he finds it difficult to imagine himself married. He’s still working on liking someone enough to keep seeing them after one or two dates. It’s surprisingly difficult. Everyone in college seems either already paired up or not interested beyond an evening; it’s a brutal dichotomy. And Stiles isn’t exactly mad about it, but there should be a progression to things like relationships, and that kind of attitude doesn’t help him experience that progression.

Still, he can take away some lessons from this experience so far.

**Lessons: a complete list by Stiles Stilinski**

  1. At least one person has married him, so Stiles is marriage material. It’s probably just a matter of time.
  2. Stiles is more adaptable and capable than people give him credit for. Look—he’s argued with Peter. _Peter_. And won (sometimes). It’s unreal.
  3. Wielding magic is freaking excellent and Stiles is definitely going to follow up on _that_ part of things after he’s back.
  4. Being the focus of one person’s attention is a little heady. Stiles thinks he likes it, but it’s intense.

Speaking of attention—Peter is showing sides of himself that Stiles hasn’t seen before. It’s interesting on multiple levels. If Peter had shown those parts to the pack back in Stiles’ timeline, maybe things would be better between him and the pack.

Especially that softer side that cared about other people—well, about Older Stiles. See, _that_ was surprisingly nice. That makes Stiles wonder exactly what went down between them to inspire that depth of feeling. Not just sex, though for sure that happened too.

Ugh. Does Stiles want to go there? He can’t not. He can be a big boy and admit that Peter is hot. Stiles focuses on the highway and tries not to think about the way Peter moved that morning. This body is older than Stiles’ original body—it’s had years to get used to Peter being around. There’s probably a Pavlovian response going on. Not that Stiles blames Older Stiles. Oh no. But maybe that’s part of why Stiles gets so flustered around Peter right now.

He wonders if Peter gets flustered too. Then he’s wondering what Peter looks like flustered. Then he decides to stop thinking about this because Peter already smells too many of Stiles’ emotions as it is. Then he decides _fuck it_.

“How long have we been together?” Stiles asks.

Peter takes the slip road to the airport. “Dare I ask about the thought process that prompted that question?”

“I’m just wondering.”

“Sure. I’m not going to tell.” He smirks. “Spoilers.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “Fine. It’s not like there’s anything I can do with the answer at this stage of things, you know.”

Peter shrugs. “Not in this timeline. But when you go back? The unhelpful idiot masquerading as Scott’s emissary is right that time travel is tricky and you shouldn’t know too much about our time now.”

Stiles frowns. “Are you talking about Deaton?”

“If we do this right, you’ll go back. If you know too much, you’ll change something. It’s risky.”

“Out of everything I’ve commented on thus far, how many years we’ve been together is the dangerous question?” They’re approaching the long-term parking lot now. “If we’re married, then it’s been a few years at least – five?”

Peter says nothing.

“Plus I never saw you as the marrying type—I don’t think I am either, but I’m still in college, so, you know,” Stiles continues. “So it’s either been so long we thought it was a good idea and wanted the tax benefits, or one of us dared the other.”

Peter shakes his head. “Spoilers. I do however note the improvement from outright disgust to curiosity and acceptance. I’m proud of you.”

They park and head into the airport. Once through security, they head to the gate. Stiles sits down with their bags and the post-it notebook, while Peter wanders away to browse the stores.

Stiles feels nauseated now—Peter was right about the Oreos thing—and is very happy to sit and read. This is something he excels at.

The first page of the notebook is a block of handwriting headed, _Hey Stiles START HERE._

Old Stiles is a freaking genius.

The note tells him that this book is a primer for harnessing his power and a guide for the knowledge he needs to get through the time travel spell. The other books hold information for further research.

_To be super accurate, everything in this primer and in those books is stuff you already know. There’s a strong mind-body-energy connection where magic is concerned, so you do have a body-memory of everything I’m going to tell you. But you should know what these spells do and how to trigger them consciously, or you could hurt yourself and people around you. Study your sack off—I mean it. If you do, you’ll be okay._

Stiles is reassured by that. The next part makes him sit up.

_About Peter: Look. I know, okay? I know. I can’t explain it—spoilers—but it’s real. He does care and you can trust him. Let him help you. Plus! This is an opportunity! Go with the flow. He’s hot. He wants you. Tap that ;)_

Again with the instruction to let him help. Old Stiles is really pushing it—Stiles got the message, loud and clear, jesus.

This continual insistence on Peter’s help probably means he has something to do with the ending of the spell. Stiles has no idea what, but Old Stiles does, so the best thing to do seems to be following instructions.

Except for that last part. Like. No. Unnecessary. Stiles doesn’t need the encouragement, nice though it is.

He turns the page over to find a typed cover page: _Magic: A Primer_. _Written by Stiles Stilinski for Stiles Stilinski_. He flips through the book to see it’s all typed out, but handwritten notes crowd the margins.

He starts reading the first section, _Magic – what it is and what it can do for you_.

Peter eventually returns, laden with jerky and drinks, and settles next to him. “Travel reading?”

Stiles nods. “I have to study all of this.”

“Sounds intense.” Peter holds out a stick of jerky. “Snack?”

His stomach doesn’t like the idea of food. Stiles shakes his head and Peter smiles, but doesn’t comment. He opens the packet and starts munching, then pulls out his phone and starts reading something on it.

Stiles reads until they board, and once they’re in their seats—in first class! _First class_. Peter is ridiculous—he continues. Peter sticks in headphones and chooses a movie to watch.

Stiles studies throughout the flight. The primer is _fascinating_. Magic courses through him constantly. It’s the energy of the universe and of reality itself. It’s still being studied and dissected. It exists naturally, in people, animals, plants and the earth. He can tap into it at will, his own or others’. He depletes it through use and replenishes it naturally with time or with proximity to ley lines or nemetons.

The primer takes him through exercises, which he does on the plane: breathing, directing magic to different parts of his body, pushing and pulling, and _feeling it_. At the end, he creates a shield around his hand. It’s all instinctive, sensation-based work. It’s amazing, but Stiles struggles with it. He can learn facts and logic his way through problems, he can react fiercely with a bat or retreat tactically to fight another day, but never has he sat with himself and tried to feel and direct a non-physical entity in himself.

He also learns how to pull the magic back. This particular section is starred and circled heavily, so Stiles figures he better get it down. He pushes his magic into his palm, then pulls it back within him, back into his flow. The magic can be pulled apart and moulded together. It can be set loose from him, outside of his body. Once set in action, it’s beyond his control, so it’s important to control it absolutely before releasing it. He practises creating the shield then drawing it back, collapsing it. He manages to create a shield separate from him, around a sugar packet given to him with a cup of coffee by the cabin crew. He pulls that back as well.

At the end of that section is a list of failsafes: containers for the magic or grounds. Magic can be directed through him into another receptacle or grounded into ley lines. Magic responds to other magic, but thanks to the mind-body connection, it also responds to a neutral, trusted person or thing. An anchor, in short.

In the margins, Old Stiles has scrawled _family. dad + peter. physical effect will still work regardless of emotional state._

Stiles looks over at Peter. He’s watching his third movie and is half-dozing in his reclined chair. Stiles summons magic to his palm, then places it on Peter’s arm. The magic simmers, then melts away from his palm, seeping back into the flow in his skin.

Peter looks over at him and quirks a half-smile. His eyes crinkle and Stiles thinks, _Oh._


	10. Chapter 10

They arrive late at night, and Stiles is unimpressed as they leave the car rental office. Unlike Portland in Oregon, Portland in Maine is covered in snow and freezing. He pulls on multiple layers and keeps his primer close under his snow jacket as they power walk to their rental car and get in.

During the flight, Scott messaged them the address of a fishing village on the coast, where the local alpha will meet them the next morning. Peter searches for places to stay in the village while Stiles gets behind the wheel and punches in the village on the GPS.

He’s wired after drinking coffee throughout the flight and studying so much. His head is clouding and he hopes driving for a while will help clear it. If not, maybe driving will give him a needed break to digest what he’s learned. He drives through the snowy, quiet highways of the city and out onto the freeway, heading through dark forest. It’s very late and hardly anyone is on the roads. In the darkness, snow is obtrusively everywhere, but the slush is minimal despite the light snowfall.

Since they disembarked, Peter has been quiet, but now he scans the darkness around them and remarks, “The view is fantastic.”

They can’t see shit. Stiles snorts. “I’m the funny one.”

“Debatable.”

“Nope. I always was.”

Peter raises one eyebrow. “Please. You had the best perspective and grasp on reality—after Lydia, of course. You were creative and strategic.”

“Too. I was that _too_.” Stiles glances over at him. “You’re thinking about the pack?”

“As we used to be, before we spread out.” He puts his elbow against the window, rests his chin on one hand. Snow landing on the car melts into drops that streak along the window behind him, glittering under the periodic lights. The car is warming up and becoming almost cozy.

“Why did the pack split up?” Stiles asks.

Peter shrugs. “Life. Even you teenagers had to grow up at some point.”

“I thought pack worked better together.”

“It generally does. Scott’s pack doesn’t follow the pack dynamics I grew up with.” Peter closes his eyes. “It’s very different.”

“Did it have anything to do with you and me?”

“Spoilers, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs. “I keep hearing that word and I don’t like it.”

“Really? You’ve been saying it to me for months.” Peter resettles himself in his seat. “When you finally convinced me this would happen, I asked you for stock insights and lottery numbers and other minor tiny details, and all you’d ever say was ‘spoilers’.”

Yeah, Stiles can just imagine what other ‘minor’ details Peter would want to know. “You don’t need to win the lottery.”

That wins him a smile. “You’d say that too.”

A not uncomfortable silence falls between them. A car travelling in the opposite direction appears in the darkness, lights brightening until it passes in a burst of brilliance. After the darkness, the sudden quick glare hurts.

“You seem to have your magic under control,” Peter says. “You were practising on the plane.”

“I have to. It’s bad if I don’t.”

“I’m here. I can stop you if I have to.” Peter says it with such easy confidence that Stiles gets the impression he’s done it before.

“You’ve stopped me before?”

Peter looks out the window. “Yes.”

“When? What happened?”

There’s a new tension which wasn’t there before. Peter hesitates before saying, “We were investigating a disappearance. There was an ambush, a fight. You lost control and I calmed you down. Brought you back.”

Stiles really doesn’t like the careful way Peter is speaking. “Why did I lose control?”

“Spoilers, Stiles.” There’s something in Peter’s voice that hints at a solid warning: _go no further_. Maybe there’s even pain.

A death? Something close? Stiles’ hands clench on the wheel, then he forces himself to relax.

“You believe me,” Peter says.

“Mostly,” Stiles says. “It helps when you’re not doing the sarcastic know-it-all routine.”

Peter looks back at him. “Pot, kettle.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not exactly a paragon of emotional honesty yourself, Stiles.”

Stiles gapes at him, then at the road. “Excuse_ you_, I am honest to a _fault_.”

“No, you’re reactive to a fault.”

“And you’re not?” Stiles gestures at him. “Don’t change the subject. Yeah, I’m a sarcastic asshole. I know. But the thing is, I know why I do it. And when I want to get closer to people, I pull it back. That’s what I’m saying: when you’re not doing the sarcastic defence thing, it’s actually okay being around you. Do it more.”

Peter chuckles harshly. “It’s _okay_ being around me. Delightful. Exactly what I want to hear.”

“Water’s not under the bridge,” Stiles reminds him. “Nowhere near it.”

There’s a hint of a growl, then Peter says, “Okay. Fine. Come on, Stiles—let the water flow. I want to hear it.”

Seriously? He’ll actually talk about it all? Stiles bites his lip, wondering where to begin, then starts with, “You bit Scott.”

“I was driven by instinct and he was there.” Peter’s voice is clipped. “I was a raving lunatic, Stiles. Remember? I’m not proud of what happened while I was in that state of mind. Especially Laura.”

And now Stiles feels a little like an asshole, because on a very objective scale, what Peter did to Laura was much, much worse than what he did to Scott. “Really?”

“Yes. I regret that very much.” Peter pauses then says, “I think the man I was before the fire would have reacted differently, but that’s not really relevant. I’m not that person anymore. I should have handled myself better, but I was in no position to think logically. I wish I had been. I wish I had two living nieces.”

That already is way more than Stiles expected. “Wow. I didn’t . . . Okay. So, Laura was a mistake?”

“Yes.”

Stiles returns to his mental list. “I burned you.”

“Yes you did. But Derek killed me.” Peter is looking directly ahead, at the road disappearing into darkness. “Either way, you both did what you needed to do.”

“I kinda thought you hated us for killing you.”

“Oh, I’m not exactly _enamoured_ by it, but given the circumstances, I’d expect no less from people defending their turf and their friends.” There’s a wry smile on Peter’s face. “You displayed pack loyalty, Stiles. You took out a threat. No, I don’t hate you or them for that.” He pushes his seat back slightly. “Besides, it was what I needed, you know? That return from death was very calming, very perspective-gaining. A lot of things were reset.”

Stiles scoffs. “_Reset?_ Death isn’t a return to factory settings for people.”

“Why not? It was for me.”

“Generally death is permanent.”

“I found a way around it because I wanted to live. I’m proud of that.” Peter pauses. “I suppose I could’ve messed with Lydia less.”

And here’s the Peter that Stiles knows and is instantly wary of. “_Really_? You _suppose_?”

“It’s dark magic, Stiles. It wasn’t ever going to be pretty. But I could have made it easier for her, yes.” Peter yawns. “Life is better now. I had my revenge and I have my family. I truly have few regrets, all things considered.”

Stiles is reminded that Peter thinks in ways completely different to anyone else he knows. The man went insane, and he’s coldly practical and self-involved. But he’s also very logical. And there is a logic to what he says. Stiles thinks he gets it. “So you don’t hate us for what we did—”

“What you felt driven to do,” Peter corrects. “What you had to do.”

Semantics, but Stiles does feel lighter for some reason. “Right. You don’t hate us, but you don’t exactly _like_ us either.”

“Have you met yourselves?”

A laugh bursts out of Stiles. “Oh my god. You dick.”

Peter smirks, but it doesn’t last long. “I stuck around for Derek and Cora. The rest of you grew on me. I did make up with Derek and Cora, you know.”

“That probably comes under spoilers.”

“Probably.”

Stiles navigates onto a new road, a smaller local road that heads towards the coast. “I grew on you too?”

Peter gives him a sharp look. “I told you before—I always noticed you. I offered you the bite for a reason, you know. Your potential, your intelligence, your loyalty, your frustrating tendency to hide yourself with idiotic humour and self-deprecation; all of that was so obvious and underappreciated. And you seemed to see right through me. You always pushed back against me. The others I could’ve convinced to sleepwalk off a cliff, but not you. I don’t know when your opinion of me changed, but one day it did. I realised you trusted me and that made all the difference.”

This is the most Stiles has ever heard Peter say outside of villain monologuing or explaining some complicated werewolf lore that that ends up saving the pack’s asses. He sounds completely sincere. No posturing.

If he’s honest, Stiles has no idea what to say in response.

Peter grins. “I do love it when I render you speechless.”

Stiles exhales roughly. “Way to ruin the moment, dude.”

For some reason, Peter laughs at that.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“You talk about your older self like he’s a completely different person, but as I keep reminding you, you really haven’t changed that much.”

Stiles shrugs that off. “Just surprised to hear compliments.”

“You never liked hearing them. Maybe you could think about changing that.”

“_And_ to hear you like Derek and Cora. Who knew family was so important?”

Peter’s eyes are glowing faintly now. “Family was always important to me, Stiles. They were all I thought about during the coma. That and revenge. Given I still have family and my revenge is fulfilled, you’ll find me almost sentimental these days.”

“And what about your thing for getting power?” Stiles presses. “_That_ was a big part of my issues with you. You wanted the alpha power back and it was obvious. I knew you were waiting for another opportunity.”

Peter hums. “You see? Insightful. And you wonder that I fell for you.”

That sends a wave of mixed feelings through Stiles. Peter doesn’t seem to notice. “This is getting into spoiler territory, but I’ll say this much: power comes in many forms.” Stiles is trying to keep his attention on the road, but he still catches a flash of blue in the corner of his eye. “Being a werewolf and tasting alphahood is mind-blowing. It’s truly ambrosial. Makes you liable to forget your human side, as I actually did. Eventually I was reminded that humans have their own heady forms of power. I . . . reassessed things.”

That’s still worrying, but it’s more familiar and less . . . murdery. “If you got the opportunity, would you become an alpha again?” Stiles asks.

“Oh yes. You know I would.” Peter’s hand rests on his thigh; his fingers begin to tap restlessly. “But the opportunity has to be right. I can wait for that. In the meantime”—Peter sounds happy—“there are other things.”

Ultimately, Stiles isn’t surprised. Not one little bit. But it’s out in the open now, and it seems like Peter isn’t gunning for anyone in their pack anymore, which is a relief. He wishes he’d asked him earlier.

Well. _His_ timeline earlier. Before the gryphon came to town.

Peter looks over at him. Stiles can feel the gaze, but keeps his eyes on the road. Peter says, “I can’t believe it. You’re not freaking out.”

Stiles shrugs. “You expected me to?”

“At your age, yes.” Peter pauses. “The age you are inside. Not your physical age.”

Stiles is a little indignant at the assumption that he’d lose his shit just because he’s young. “It’s nice to hear you admit to all that.”

“Hm.”

“Honesty is a good look on you.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Sure. When it suits you.”

“No.” Peter pats Stiles’ thigh. “With you? Always. We promised.”

Warmth lingers on Stiles’ leg and in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say. Peter could be lying, but there's no reason why he should. If he's being honest, he just gave a big part of himself to Stiles. And what can Stiles do with that? There's no disgust, no fear, not even anger anymore. There's just understanding.

Peter closes his eyes and leans his head back. Stiles keeps driving, but exhaustion is setting in now, foggy and draining. He forces his focus and decides to swap drivers at the next pitstop.

Seeing Peter like this is new. Different. He could be on board with it. Maybe this is how people grow on each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this while verrry tipsy (thank you this week for being a wonderful mess) so please excuse any typos. I'll go back over it at some point but not now. Happy Friday!


	11. Chapter 11

Peter managed to book a bed and breakfast in the village using his phone, and they reach it in the very early morning. There’s only one bed in their room—naturally—but Stiles is so tired he doesn’t care. They both collapse in it without packing, half-dressed, and sleep through breakfast. Peter’s phone wakes them up close to lunch and they stumble outside into the Maine winter in search of brunch and coffee.

The fishing village is small and quaint, very east coast and very cold. Snow covers the forest surrounding it, but hasn’t settled on the streets and shoreline. The sky is clear blue and the air is pure and salty when it blows in off the ocean. Stiles and Peter’s breaths form clouds as they speak. Stiles hasn’t been anywhere near the snowline before and it’s amazing. He can’t appreciate it as much as he wants because he has a sleep-deprivation headache like no business and wants all the caffeine in the world.

They find a place near the shorefront that does brunch. Inside the café is brightness and warmth, with smells of baking and coffee and butter. It’s busy, which surprises Stiles, but they’re given a table and put in their orders quickly.

Stiles has taken his primer with him, but it’s difficult to concentrate and he hasn’t opened it yet. It’s weird because he’s pulled all-nighters at college, has been in tough, intense, and long-lasting supernatural situations; he’s been tired before. The quality of this tiredness is different, it’s not easy to handle or to push through, and he wonders if this is due to his thirty-two-year-old body. He sends messages to his dad, Deaton and Scott confirming they’ve arrived and are safe. Peter is texting people too. It’s almost domestic—until Peter looks up, eyes glowing faintly, and says, “Incoming.”

Stiles looks around. A woman has just stepped into the café. She’s middle-aged and wearing a worn winter coat over jeans and snow boots. She carries an air of absolute capability and self-sufficiency, and Stiles is abruptly all too aware of his city sneakers and barely-used brand-name snow jacket which surely marks him as the soft California tourist he is. When she sees them, she heads over right away.

The alpha they’re supposed to meet, Stiles realises.

“Peter Hale? Stiles Stilinski?” she greets them.

“Alpha Bowen,” Peter replies. “Please join us.”

She sits beside Peter at their table, and frowns at Stiles. “Your face—did that happen on the way here?”

Stiles has forgotten about the bruises. “The other day. It’s unrelated.”

She looks relieved, but not by much. “I’m glad you’re here and that the McCall pack could help. Welcome to Maine. Let me give you a run-down on what’s going on.” She orders coffee first, then settles in.

“We’ve had weird happenings for a few weeks, but it’s been growing beyond our capability to control.” She pauses, clearly gathering her thoughts. “It started with dead animals and one or two disappearances in the area around our local nemeton. Then I couldn’t get into the forest around it anymore. Every time I tried, I’d find myself walking out the same way I went in.” She pulls out her phone. “Magic of some kind, clearly. The area that’s affected has grown and subsumed this town.” She shows them a map of Maine and an area circled in pink. It runs along the coast—hitting the village they’re in—the border, and includes a town in the middle, which she points to. “No one’s heard from them in over a week. We know there are worried relatives outside the state which keep looking for news, but they’re being stonewalled by local services and people. Dead animals keep turning up, people keep disappearing into the forest, and the affected area keeps growing. My emissary and I are overwhelmed. If anyone can figure out what’s going on and stop it, it’s you two.”

Stiles nods as though he’s confident, but he really isn’t. Peter nods as though the statement is his due. His ego is probably lapping this up.

“Can you share more details about the weird happenings?” Stiles asks.

She describes people disappearing into the forest and the constant turnout of dead animals. They’ve been tracking social media pleas for information, because local law enforcement is strangely clueless. People who enter but don’t disappear are diverted out of the area. New roads have appeared, and people who drive along them either disappear or find themselves driving out in the opposite direction on the same road. Trees keep appearing on the boundary of the affected area—she’s noticed new ones in this village already.

“People not noticing is very peculiar,” Peter says. “Not even local news?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s so strange. Ask any local and they come up with a story to explain it.”

Their food arrives then. As their waiter sets it down, Bowen says, “The story involves a disease outbreak.”

“Oh,” the waiter says, “you’re talking about the quarantine?”

Stiles and Peter glance at each other. “Quarantine?”

“Yeah.” The waiter is young with thick curly hair and a dusting of acne on one side of his jaw. “Area’s under quarantine. Some weird animal disease. People are meant to stay away and anyone in the area is being checked. My aunt called us and she lives smack bang in the middle of the whole thing.” He shakes his head. “Crazy how outbreaks like that still happen.”

“Yeah,” Alpha Bowen says slowly. “Crazy. When did your aunt call you?”

“Yesterday.” He frowns. “Or wait, was it this morning? Or . . . no, it was . . .” He stands still for a long moment, frowning, then his face abruptly clears and he smiles at them. “Can I get you folks anything else?”

“We’re good,” Stiles says.

The waiter leaves and Peter leans forward to say quietly, “Bewitched.”

“Just a bit,” Bowen agrees.

Stiles makes positive noises through a mouthful of hash browns.

“So this is what everyone close to the area is saying? Sounds like a measure to prevent investigation.” Peter sips his coffee then starts cutting up his fried eggs. “You got people in town?”

She nods. “My left hand, emissary and a few packmates. We did send in packmates periodically over the last few weeks, but some of them haven’t come back, so we stopped.”

Peter makes a sympathetic face.

Stiles swallows his food. “You’re not affected by this—this spell or whatever, like our friend over there.”

Bowen pulls an amulet out from under her shirt. “My emissary has my pack covered. He’s the only reason we even noticed the issue, let alone remember it. I suggest you do something similar for him.” She inclines her head at Peter.

Stiles has no idea what to do. An amulet? A mind-protection spell? He only just learned how to use magic twelve hours ago. He takes a large gulp of coffee.

Peter looks amused. “Agreed.”

Stiles puts down his mug. “You said you know our packmate? Lydia?”

Bowen smiles. “Oh yes. It’s not often we get a banshee sniffing around. I don’t think it’s a good sign, but we were happy to meet her, as she’s a powerful ally to have.” Her face falls. “We shared everything we knew and she still insisted on going in alone. That was several days ago and she hasn’t been in contact since. I’m sorry.”

She goes on to explain about the others who have disappeared. Other werewolves, humans, hunters, tourists . . . There’s no discernible pattern, but Stiles figures there has to be one.

He lifts his mug and catches their waiter’s eye. “Is your emissary looking for a pattern in the people who have disappeared and those who were diverted out?” he asks.

She nods. “He has theories.”

The waiter comes over with the coffee jug and pours Stiles another cup. He tops up Peter’s cup, then spots Bowen’s phone with the map. “Oh hey! You interested in the outbreak? It’s crazy how the whole area’s under quarantine. Some weird animal disease. People are meant to stay away and anyone in the area is being checked. My aunt called us and she lives smack bang in the middle of the whole thing.” He shakes his head. “Crazy how outbreaks like that still happen.” He goes to fill their cups, realises they’re full already, blinks in confusion, then leaves.

Bowen’s mouth is pulled down. “I don’t like this at all.”

Stiles stares after the waiter. “I wonder how many times I can make him do that.”

Under the table, a foot taps his, then rests next to it. Across the table, Peter raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Behave, darling.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and shoves in more food. He’s starting to feel more alert and aware.

“What are your plans?” Bowen asks them.

Stiles shoots Peter a look he hopes says _please tell her something please_ and drinks more coffee.

“We’ll explore ourselves,” Peter says. “We’d like to retrace our packmate’s steps, if possible, and see what the barrier is like. Maybe we’ve experienced something like it before.”

“And research,” Stiles says. “We should research.”

Bowen nods slowly. “Sure. Not that I want to rush you, but this thing grows each day. I don’t want it to take this village.”

“Once we have an idea of what we’re dealing with,” Peter says, “we’ll reconvene and discuss next steps with you.”

She seems happy with that and leaves once she’s finished her coffee. As the food and caffeine have worked their magic, Stiles opens his primer and flips through to where he left off last night. The magic section is over, the next section is called _Spells_, and is split into _theory_, _defensive_, _offensive_. On the _Spells_ section cover is a handwritten note: _while Peter finishes brunch, go to page 147_.

Stiles obediently turns to page 147. It’s in the defensive spells subsection and the first spell on the page, _mind protection_, is circled. Stiles shakes his head in disbelief, then reads the spell closely. It doesn’t need much work. He practises in his head and gets the words ready.

“Peter?” he says.

Peter looks up. Stiles clears his throat. “I need to put a spell on you.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “You already have, sweetheart.” At Stiles’ unimpressed look, he adds, “What’s this one for?”

“To keep your mind free of influence.” Stiles reaches across the table and puts his hand on Peter’s temple. Peter holds still while Stiles chants the words and focuses. Magic runs from him through to Peter and lingers there, eventually sinking away. Stiles sits back, hoping it worked.

“Thanks,” Peter says. “I can feel a difference already.”

“Really?”

Peter nods, his expression thoughtful. “I had _quarantine_ running constantly through my head. Whatever this is, it’s potent and it’s good.” He gets up to use the bathroom.

Stiles finds a note next to the end of the spell saying _once you’re done, go back to the start_. He mentally puts himself at the start of the section and finishes off his eggs and coffee while reading the introduction to spell theory. It’s short and he finishes it by the time they’re done with brunch.

Outside, the day is bright. Stiles and Peter walk along the shoreline, watching the fishing boats bob in the waves, then head through the village to where it meets the forest. They walk along the forest boundary and find four trees planted strangely close to residential fences, plus a dead raccoon. The raccoon is stiff and frozen, its body sunk and flat. Peter picks it up with two fingers, frowning at it. There’s no dimension to it—if fur and gristle could be pancaked, this is what it would look like.

Stiles points out the obvious. “What happened to its skeleton?”

“And its flesh,” Peter murmurs. “There’s nothing left. I can’t even smell blood.”

Stiles takes a picture of it and sends to Deaton and Scott with several question marks. They put the raccoon back and continue walking. When they reconnect with the shoreline, they find a well-used walking trail leading along the coast, navigating the shore and the forest. They stand at the trailhead, looking into what they know is magicked territory.

“Can you feel anything?” Peter asks.

Stiles turns on him. “Am I supposed to have been _sensing_ something beyond the cold air this entire time? Because I haven’t.”

Peter sighs dramatically. “You’re the magic user. Sense the magic. It’s what you normally do.”

Stiles scowls. “Like anything about this is _what I normally do_.” He looks around—at the trees, the trail, the shore, the soft lapping waves, and at the village behind them—then turns back to Peter. “Little help?”

Peter shrugs. “You usually pick up something passively, but I suppose I could help you seek actively.” He pauses, eyes glinting. “If you wish.”

Great, playful sarcastic asshole Peter is back. Stiles shouldn’t let him outside in public, where people can say things _if anyone can figure out what’s going on and stop it, it’s you two_. He gestures impatiently. “Come on.”

“Close your eyes.”

Stiles narrows them instead.

Peter smiles wickedly. “Trust me, Stiles.”

Stiles holds up one finger. “Don’t take this as an opportunity to try anything or I’ll blast you with the worst spell I know.”

“Interesting suggestion, dear, I’ll keep it in mind. One small detail: you don’t know any spells.”

Stiles feels his face grow hot. “Don’t underestimate my innate talent,” he snaps, then closes his eyes.

“Listen. What do you hear?”

Stiles hears the sea and noise from the village. He shrugs irritably. “Stuff.”

“Use the magic, Stiles. Listen.”

He brings the now-familiar buzzing energy up and pushes it out. He hears Peter’s breathing and his heartbeat. Stiles goes further. There’s the waves on the shore and the movement of rocks in the water. Behind him is the village and human noise—cars, people talking, machinery, bells, phones.

The forest. The wind as it shakes the trees and dead leaves. Stiles frowns. There’s a vibration, a noise to the forest which doesn’t sound right.

Peter inhales to speak and it’s like a wall of static in front of him. Stiles holds up one hand to keep him quiet and continues focusing. He extends out, further into the forest. The strange noise grows louder, stronger. The trees grow up and out, peaceful life-giving energy, but there’s urgency, there’s repulsion, and right where the noise is loudest and strongest, there’s death, there’s a vacuum—

And Stiles is stopped. It’s a like a concrete block in the forest, less than a mile in, and Stiles can’t push past it. All the forest energies, anything that’s green and living, is pulling away from it.

Okay.

He pulls away, easing his magic slowly back to him. Past the trees, past the branches, past the wind rattling through twigs and trunks. He comes back to the village, the shoreline, the waves, the now quiet breaths and steady heartbeat of the person in front of him. Stiles lingers for a moment. Peter’s heartbeat causes shivery cascades of blood with every pulse. Energy courses through him—not magic, just life, power, strength. Stiles swears he hears Peter blink, the brush of his eyelashes on his face. He’s close. They share the same breath, the same air. It’s unspeakably . . .

With a sharp jerk, Stiles pulls his magic back to him, and with it his normal range of hearing. He inhales deeply and opens his eyes. Peter is right in front of him, inches away, worry across his face. The winter sky is reflected in the blue of his eyes.

“Stiles?” Peter says. “You back with me?”

Stiles nods shakily. Peter hesitates, then reaches up and gently caresses Stiles’ neck, then runs his hand through his hair. Scenting. Maybe comfort.

Stiles swallows and points into the forest. “Th-there’s a blockage—it feels like a wall? It’s in the forest, like half a mile from here. It doesn’t feel good, feels like death. Bad things. The trees are growing away from it.” He realises how weird that sounds as he says it.

Peter doesn’t laugh. “Well done.”

Stiles can’t seem to look away from his eyes, his hair, his mouth. “Thanks. For the help.”

Peter’s gaze drops down to Stiles’ lips. “Any time, sweetheart.”

There’s a pause, a danger, and Stiles could lean forward, just a bit, so easily, but he—

The hook of _Bad Touch_ by the Bloodhound Gang booms out, jolting both of them. Stiles fumbles for his phone while Peter steps back. Scott’s name flashes up on the screen and Stiles turns his back on Peter while he answers, heart _racing_.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Scott sounds outraged. “Is that raccoon picture real?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “It’s weird, right?”

“It’s fucked up, is what it is. Dead animals shouldn’t look like that, Stiles. It looks like it’s been sucked dry.”

Stiles straightens. “Wait, are vampires real, Scotty? Could that be a possibility?”

There’s a disbelieving pause. “No, Stiles, vampires aren’t real. Seriously? When have we ever run into one?”

The werewolf behind him snorts with laughter.

Stiles flips the finger over his shoulder. “Just checking.”

“Okay? Anyway, Deaton and I think the cause of death is magic. What was left of it?”

“Fur. Its claws and nose and ears.” Stiles makes a face when he remembers. “Tendons. Peter said it didn’t smell like blood or guts or anything.”

“If it was that flat”—this is Deaton’s voice now—“unskinned, and with cartilage left, it definitely wasn’t a natural death. My best guess is that magic sucked the lifeforce out of it.”

Stiles swings back around to check if Peter’s listening in. He is, of course, and his expression is grim. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Deaton says. “If whatever did this is the same thing causing problems in Maine, you and Peter must be very, very careful.”

Peter rolls his eyes and turns to stare thoughtfully at the forest.

“Thanks for the tip,” Stiles says, managing to keep the sarcasm at bay. He relays the quarantine story side effect, which has Deaton making uncertain sounds down the line.

“Any sign of Lydia?” Scott asks.

“No,” Stiles replies. His stomach sinks at the thought of her being trapped by whatever hurt the raccoon.

“Keep looking. Deaton and I will dig into mass-area magic, okay? Don’t take any risks, check in with Alpha Bowen, and _no heroics._ I mean it.”

“Thanks. Speak soon, Scotty.” Stiles hangs up, pleasantly surprised because Scott’s become more authoritative and it’s kind of awesome.

He’s just in time to see Peter stepping off the trail into the forest. Stiles curses and follows him.

“Peter! Peter, stop!”

Peter ignores him. Stiles catches up and jogs slightly ahead, looking him in the face. “Peter. Petey. What are you doing?”

Peter’s eyes snap to his at the name. “Don’t call me that. And I’m walking.”

“Why are you walking into the forest, where the scary magic lives, and not back to the village, where people are alive and can drive away to safety?”

Peter huffs. “What are we here to do again, Stiles? Half a mile isn’t that far.”

That’s kind of the problem, but Stiles falls into step anyway. They find a hiking trail heading in the right general direction and walk in silence. Stiles projects out a little and feels the block coming up. When they’re a few steps away, Stiles grabs Peter’s arm and they both come to a stop.

“Here?” Peter asks.

Stiles can tell he’s going to regret this. He points. “Just in front of us.” He doesn’t have to try to feel it now—it radiates dark energy in front of him. There’s a pulsating wall across the trail extending to their right and left. Stiles focuses. It feels like it goes up and _down_, into the earth. If he concentrates, he can feel the natural energies of the forest pulling away from this.

Peter is frowning. “I don’t feel or see anything.”

Stiles swallows. “It really doesn’t feel good. I’m not exaggerating.”

They stand there for a few moments, then Peter strides forward past the border of the block. Stiles gapes at him, then lunges after him. “_Peter_. What the _fuck_?”

He shrugs. “Live a little, Stiles.”

They take a few more steps, then Peter comes to a standstill and looks around him. Stiles stops next to him. “What?”

“Do you feel anything?”

Stiles nods. He can feel the magic around him now, pressing in malevolently. “It’s all around us. I don’t feel the trees anymore.”

Peter sniffs. “I can’t smell them here, or the salt from the ocean. Or you and me. Can’t hear any wildlife either. Not a good sign.” He glances down and surprise flickers across his face. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Has the trail disappeared for you?”

Stiles looks down. The trail is there, clear and well-worn. “No, I see it.”

Peter looks thoughtful. “Interesting. I can’t.” His head perks up. “I hear something. Voices, yelling.” He frowns.

Stiles is so full of bad feelings it’s not funny. “I can’t hear anything. Don’t listen, Peter.”

He grimaces. “They sound like Derek and Cora. They’re in pain.” His eyes flare electric blue. “Fire.”

Aaaaand Stiles is done. He grabs Peter’s hand. “Come on.”

He drags Peter back the way they came, stumbling and reluctant, until they pass the border of the magic and Peter droops in relief. “The trail’s back. The voices are gone.” He looks over his shoulder into the forest. “_Very_ interesting.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles is ready to shake him. “_Interesting_? It was a _trap_! And you walked right into it!”

Peter turns to him. “I know, but I wouldn’t have actually run off. I know where Derek and Cora are, and it’s not here.” He pauses. “The voices were very convincing though.” His voice wavers slightly.

Stiles decides it’s way past time to leave the forest. He begins pulling Peter back towards the shore. “You asshole. I can’t believe you. Is that how you _investigate_? Just by running in and seeing what happens?”

“You more than anyone should know that yields results,” Peter says. “I wonder if it’s specifically a trapping spell, or if the magic responded so personally to me as part of a general mechanism?”

“Great questions!” Stiles yells irritably. “Let’s do some research. Preferably somewhere safe and _not_ in the forest, like, oh, I don’t know, this handy village full of nice people!” After this experience Stiles wants hot chocolate and a warm fireplace and a nap, in that order.

They step out of the trail onto the shoreline. Stiles can see the village and never has human settlement ever been more welcoming.

“Be careful, Stiles,” Peter says. “I might think you care.”

Stiles jolts to a halt. He looks back at him, then raises their joined hands and with much ceremony and glaring, lets Peter’s go. “Try that again. See what I do.”

Peter grins wolfishly at him and Stiles feels his face grow hot. He’s not irritated or mad—just relieved they’re both okay. It probably shows.

Peter steps closer. “What would you do? Come after me? Stop me? Or let me go?”

Stiles doesn’t want to respond, because the answer to that question is different to what it would’ve been yesterday. Instead he raises his finger and snaps, “Pointless to ask, because you wouldn’t go back in there without more preparation.”

Peter just keeps grinning at him. “True. Thank you for the rescue, sweetheart.” He then takes in a deep, deep breath. Stiles imagines him smelling everything again, imagines the sense of relief that must provide, and lets Peter recover. When they’re both calm, Stiles turns for the village. Peter goes with him and doesn’t look back.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes canon*  
*crumples it up*  
*throws it out the window*

Back at the B&B, Stiles pulls the books out of his bag and stacks them on the bed. The primer waits for him on the desk, but he and Peter assess which book would be most useful to research right now.

“_The History of Ley Lines_,” Peter reads. “_Massive Attack: offensive spells of mass effect. The Darkness Within. Non-Lethal Offence. Labyrinth Design. _Who the hell writes these things?” He’s already picking up the book on mass effect spells and settling down on the bed.

Stiles lets himself smirk. “Be sure to thank Old Stiles for his choices when he’s back.” He heads to the desk and sits down, ready for whatever the primer has to throw at him. After the introduction to the _Spells_ section, there’s a wall of text that goes into the details. He gets comfy.

_Spells – theory_

_Look, Stiles, spells are freakishly complicated and you’re just going to rely instinct for a lot of this. I’ve learned so much and it’s a struggle to get the basics down. If I meander, that’s why._

_All spells have four components:_

  * _Source_
  * _Intent_
  * _Form_
  * _Condition_

_Source is where the magic comes from. That’s generally you, as using magic from other sources is a serious no-no without consent. People and animals can generate their own magic; small sources with meagre energy are sparks, while those with lots of inherent magic are full-blown spellcasters (or mages, or witches, or druids, or what the frick ever). Non-animal sources are ley lines and nemetons._

_Intent is the motivation/reason/purpose for the spell. E.g. the gryphon beacon spell was to summon a gryphon to Derek’s loft. When casting spells created by other people (like you did for the gryphon), your intent must exactly match the spell’s. It’s easier to create and cast your own spells, as your spell will emerge naturally from your intent, but sometimes you don’t have time to do that. Group spells should be avoided; others’ intents can muddy the form and execution of the spell._

_Form is the channel of the magic, or how you cast the spell. This can be items or things (like marjoram), symbols, writing, words, sounds, gestures, transformations (setting something on fire), or living creatures (people, animals)._

_Condition describes the completion and end of the spell. All spells have an end – either with the death of the caster, or when the intent is fulfilled. Spells of perpetual effect (like the protection I cast around Beacon Hills) last for the lifetime of the caster or until the subject of the protection is gone, whichever is first._

_Spells can be cumulative or destructive, depending on the intent and effect._

The following part has IMPORTANT scribbled next to it. _Spells can interrupt other spells._ _If any of the four components is significantly disrupted or removed completely, then the spell is fundamentally incomplete and results in unchannelled magic. This is very dangerous. Magic is very responsive energy and it wants to return to a resting source. If let loose of its form or channel, it will seek out the nearest source of magic immediately – usually the spellcaster. Other sources may be a spark, ley lines, or nemetons. It does this violently and immediately. Spellcasters and innocent sparks have lost limbs to wild magic. This is why the number one skill in spellcasting is safe withdrawal and channelling. A spell in stasis has to be safely dissipated. The spell must be stopped and the magic channelled home safely, or the spell must be completed by other means._

_Think about this, Stiles, before turning the page._

Stiles blinks, having forgotten he wrote this to himself.

It’s honestly fascinating. Stiles had no idea there was so much to magic. Back in his timeline, he’s a spark, able to throw around ash and follow directions. He and Lydia like trying new spells and seeing what they can do. Either they’ve been lucky to pull them off, or they hadn’t been using much magic to begin with. Stiles can feel his magic like a presence in him now, but back in his twenties, it was just a vague feeling. He hadn’t tapped into his full potential, obviously—unlike Lydia, whose powers had come on her without her control.

So. Interrupted spells. Is Old Stiles referring to the gryphon spell? Because Stile is sure he actually messed that up.

But wait.

He replays it in his head. He’d finished the words. The chalk had glowed. The spell had been underway. He’d spilled the herbs, yeah, but technically hadn’t interrupted anything. He’d had to drain them; spilling them on the ground was messy, but the same action in theory. He could’ve cleaned them up, then set them on fire. No ingredients had been lost, just rearranged.

So why had he come _here_? If he was right, if he was understanding these descriptions right, then his actions couldn’t explain the time travel. Even if he was wrong and he _had_ fucked up the spell, then the magic should’ve returned to him, not sent him through time.

So what would send him through time?

Another spell.

His spell had been interrupted.

“Son of a bitch.” He realises he’s standing.

“What?” Peter says behind him.

Stiles turns around. “I didn’t fuck up the spell, Peter. The gryphon one. I didn’t fuck it up and accidentally send myself here—_someone else did_.”

Peter is cross-legged on the bed, book open between his knees. He frowns. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” The more Stiles thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Stiles hadn’t been thinking about time travel at all. No way had he inflicted this on himself—he was caught in another spell, one in which him being here, like this, at this time, was the intent. “Someone wanted me here. This me, _me_ me.”

“Who?”

Stiles fixes him with a dirty look. “Like I know?”

Peter gestures. “Maybe it was Lydia. You told yourself to come here and help. Maybe she called you.”

Stiles slumps. “Maybe. I don’t know. If my magic can’t get through whatever that block is, would hers get through from the other side?”

“She could’ve cast it before she went in.”

“There’s too much I don’t know,” Stiles says. “It’s probably related to Lydia, but I just don’t know.”

“Keep going. We have all afternoon.” Peter bends back over his book.

Stiles returns to the primer and turns over the page.

_You should’ve figured out that this time travel thing came from someone else._

Jesus H Christ on a stick. Would it have killed Old Stiles to just _tell _him?

_You’ll learn better this way, and you need to learn, Stiles_ .

Old Stiles might be a genius, but he’s also the worst.

Fuck, he’s saying that about _himself_.

He continues reading.

The theory section continues with more explanations, as well as exercises. He works through them, finding each easy once he gets his head around the principle being explained. The section on defensive spells is straightforward, starting with a scribble saying _the spells you’ll probably need_. Some of the listed spells have notes he doesn’t understand, like _for the car_ and _to be cast before crossing_. They’re described as magic-diverting spells.

In the middle of the afternoon, he takes a break to go out for snacks. Peter is deep in the mass effect book and requests healthy things, ugh. Stiles walks to the grocery store—the village is small enough that he can—and buys anything that looks interesting. During the trip, he turns over the information they have and tries to put it together in a way he understands. It’s frustrating, because he’s sure that Old Stiles would be able to assess everything way better and quicker. Time is of the essence.

Still: an area under magical influence—maybe multiple influences? Multiple spells? Because Peter had been targeted in a way Stiles hadn’t. Is it consistently thick everywhere? If so, how? The energy involved must be immense, meaning a _ton_ of magic, more than one person could legitimately generate and maintain.

And how do the dead animals fit in? Bowen’s description of events implicate Maine’s nemeton, but nemetons are natural magical entities. Even with Stiles’ limited understanding based on Beacon Hills’ nemeton, he knows that they would never generate what he and Peter are saw and felt. Not unless manipulated somehow.

He pauses in front of the granola bars.

_Huh_.

Nemetons work with natural magic, with the forests and the land. The effect he felt in the forest was that natural magic being repulsed and pulling away. Maybe that explains the new trees somehow, that repulsion. The darkness he felt in the block was totally antithetical to nemeton energy, but maybe it’s been transformed somehow. A nemeton could generate the kind of power they’re dealing with.

This feels like a good theory.

His phone buzzes and he digs it out of his pocket to see a text from Peter: _Lydia was staying at one of the shorefront hotels. Heading over now. Meet me at the B&B in half an hour_.

Stiles doesn’t want to know how Peter found that out. He types out a reply: _been thinking – maybe corrupted nemeton?!?_ He sends it but doesn’t get a response, so he sends the same thing to Deaton.

Then he takes his time picking out granola bars for Peter and chips in flavours they don’t have in California for himself. Afterwards, he walks slowly to the B&B and lets himself back into their room.

The bed has several sheets of paper with notes in what Stiles assumes is Peter’s handwriting. Naturally he starts reading.

**Spells of mass effect; a factual list compiled by Stiles Stilinski (thanks to Peter Hale)**

  1. _Mass effect spells require substantial power sources_
  2. _99% of mass effect spells are very short in duration due to the required amount of magic_
  3. _The effect is limited by the size of people/area, duration, and amount of available power_
  4. _As with all spells, effect is determined by intent_
  5. _There are only two documented cases of mass effect where the spell lasted more than several hours: a village of 2000 people in the Philippines was protected during the height of a hurricane in the 1970s, and 15 British miners survived a tunnel collapse in the 1960s. In both cases local spellcasters drew on ley lines to supplement their own natural power; this is the only reason they survived to share the incidents._
  6. _Spellcasters often “cheat” by creating spells that use specific forms or a small amount of land which happen to influence a large area of land or group of people. This is not a true spell of mass effect._

Peter’s left a note there: _like S’s protection barrier around BH_. Stiles doesn’t know the details, but it’s probably all semantics anyway. He thinks what they experienced today is a true spell of mass effect.

He returns to his desk and primer, just as Deaton responds to his message. _Possibly. If a nemeton has been corrupted, the obvious suspect would be a Darach, i.e. druid that has turned to dark magic. Approach with caution._

Darach. Stiles hasn’t encountered any Darachs in Beacon Hills—well, not that he’s aware of. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Old Stiles has dealt with hundreds and the knowledge is deep in his bones.

Stiles sends back: _thx. any tips to deal w darachs? anything else it could be?_

Deaton: _We’re still researching._

And so, of course, is Stiles. The defensive spells seem straightforward but pretty serious, and there aren’t any exercises, so Stiles moves onto offensive spells. This comes with a big warning in bold italic underline, circled heavily in pen:

** _ VERY DANGEROUS  _ **

** _ USE EXTREMELY CAUTIOUSLY _ **

Well then.

He opens a packet of all dressed chips and moves forward. Like the defensive spells section, there are notes like _learn, don’t practice_ and _this is quicker but not as effective_ and _just in case_. Unlike the defensive spells section, there are exercises, and a few spells are starred as _safe to practise in an isolated area_.

Stiles looks around. Peter isn’t back yet, and the B&B is quiet. Maybe this counts as isolated?

Just then he hears two kids running along the corridor past his room, a mom sighing loudly as she follows, and he changes his mind.

He picks up the primer and his snow jacket and heads outside. He heads to the forest boundary closest to the B&B—which, wonderfully, is on the _opposite_ side of the village to the encroaching magic of terror and awfulness—and finds a quiet area without people around. He does a quick scan using the magical ‘hearing’ Peter taught him earlier, then gets started.

The first set of exercises are designed to warm him up. He pushes and pulls at his magic, makes a bubble and sets it free to float before him, then extends a shield around his body and dissolves it. Then he shapes a sharp dart of magic in his palm and throws it at the bubble. It pops and the dart dissolves. He progresses through the exercises, which escalate until he’s throwing fire from his palms and generating an electric bolt that melts a hole in the snow near him and makes him sweat in his jacket. The last exercise is the worst, and there’s a note to practise on a non-living thing with natural energy, like water or a freshly-plucked flower, and only to use it in absolute emergencies. Old Stiles has scrawled: _dark magic when used on people._ He picks up a handful of snow, apologises to it, and drains it of its energy. It crumbles to a small amount of dust in his hand, and there’s a relieving rush of magic into his skin. It’s like he didn’t expel anything at all during the afternoon.

That’s so useful. But it’s under the offensive spell section.

He stares at the dust in his hand, then back at the note in the primer. _Dark magic when used on people_. Magic users can do this to _people_?

That’s . . . oh shit, that’s sickening. _He _can do that to people, at any time. Any magic user can. Just a draw of energy, an exchange, and then bye bye thing or person and hello magical top-up. It’s disturbing. At least this was only snow, only water—not that he doesn’t feel guilty about it. He does. He bends down and pours the dust into the puddle left by his electric bolt.

He takes a deep breath and tucks the primer into his jacket pocket. Maybe he can be done for the day. This is fucked up and he doesn’t think he’ll forget it. The worst part of it was how _easy_ it was. Stiles so far has been really on board with this whole awesome powerful spellcaster thing, but if this is something he knows how to do, it doesn’t seem so exciting anymore. It seems dangerous and like there should be laws about it.

Well, he’s not from now, maybe there are.

It’s the late afternoon and getting dark. Stiles hasn’t received a message from Peter and the half-hour rendezvous is long gone. Stiles isn’t . . . _worried_, per se, as he turns back towards the B&B. He’s just concerned. Peter can and does look after himself, and short of him going back into the block of evil magic, Stiles can’t imagine what other trouble Peter can get into here.

He enters the B&B to see a line at the lobby and people sitting around looking shellshocked. One of the staff is handing out cocoa, and she stops by Stiles. “You’re already a guest aren’t you?”

He nods. “What’s going on?”

She hands him a mug. “The Clamhouse had a massive fire and they evacuated the hotel. We’re taking in some of the guests, but it’s going to be chaotic for a while.”

There’s a sinking feeling in Stiles’ stomach. “Was the Clamhouse on the shorefront?”

“Yeah.” She shakes her head sadly. “It’s such a shame. It was one of the oldest places in town. An institution, you know? First the quarantine, now this. Crazy, right?” She passes her last mug to someone behind him and leaves to collect more.

Stiles takes his cocoa upstairs and watches TV while he waits. Before long, the door opens and Peter walks in, his own mug in hand. His face is still flushed from the cold, he seems calm and collected, but Stiles can immediately tell, somehow, that he’s hiding something.

“What did you do?” Stiles asks him.


	13. Chapter 13

Peter sips his cocoa. “You know, given your—” he gestures vaguely with his other hand “—condition, I genuinely can’t tell if that’s an accusatory question or an expression of how well you know me.”

Stiles manages not to roll his eyes. “Consider it both.”

Peter puts the mug down and takes off his jacket. “Well. It was only a _little_ fire. Not my fault the place hadn’t been renovated or decorated since it was built two centuries ago.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. “A _little_ fire? Are you serious?”

Peter shrugs. “Who can’t handle a little fire? I can. That place evidently can’t.”

Stiles points at him. “You? You don’t deserve cocoa.”

Peter quickly takes back his mug. “Opinion, not fact.”

Stiles sees the white topping in Peter’s mug and gapes. “You got _marshmallows_?”

“The staff here are fantastic. I’m telling you now, our review is going to be excellent.”

“_I_ didn’t get marshmallows!”

“Shame, they’re wonderful.” Peter takes a long slurp and briefly closes his eyes in appreciation. “Mm. Now, I had to do some digging at the hotel, but I did manage to find Lydia’s details. She stayed for two nights then paid her bill and left. They’d cleaned her room, but I noticed some herbal smells that couldn’t be related to the cleaners’ equipment—”

Stiles facepalms. “You went into her room?”

“—so I think it’s safe to assume she had her spellkit with her.” Peter swirls the cocoa in his mug. “Might be relevant, might not. The most informative item was the envelope she left behind the lobby desk.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope.

Stiles blinks, putting the pieces together. “You set a fire to _clear the lobby_? For that?”

Peter sighs. “Like I said, it was a _small_ one. If the staff there knew what they were doing, they could’ve doused it quickly. Instead they just hit the alarm and ran out. Honestly, the gall.”

“I doubt it was a small one by the time they saw it.” Stiles gestures. “Plus, dude, you could’ve distracted them a _multitude_ of other ways.”

“Could I?”

Stiles wants to shake him. “Yes. Less destructive ways. You ruined the hotel.”

“It was already ruined. Gingham curtains? With flowery wallpaper? Please. The owner should thank me.”

This is getting ridiculous. Stiles reaches for the envelope. “What’s it say?”

“She addressed it to Scott.” Peter hands it over and Stiles takes out the note. It’s on hotel stationery and has Lydia’s elegant handwriting all over it.

_Scott or whoever Scott sends after me_  
_If you’re reading this, I didn’t check in, which means I’ve been trapped by the dark magic covering the forest. After talking with Alpha Bowen, I think this is a corrupted nemeton or a Darach. I don’t know what else it could be. FYI I used mind and spell protection potions and have a GPS solar-powered phone. I went in parallel to the ley lines and suggest you do the same. Convergence point seems key, that’s where I’m heading. Don’t worry, I have tricks up my sleeve in case the potions fail._  
_ XXX LM_

Stiles wants to simultaneously jump in victory—because _he’d_ come to the same conclusion!—and groan because this situation is now confirmed as seriously bad. “After what Bowen said earlier today, I was thinking the same thing.”

“Me too,” Peter says. “The research I did suggests that the only viable power source for the block is the ley lines. A Darach is a logical conclusion.”

Stiles nods. “Could it be anything or anyone else?”

“Of course. Anything’s possible. However, I find Occam’s Razor is a good principle to live by, and Darachs are more power-hungry than any other kind of druid or magic-user.” Peter drinks more cocoa, frowning slightly. “But they don’t come from nowhere.”

“Have we encountered Darachs before?” Stiles gestures vaguely. “In this timeline, I mean.”

Peter shakes his head. “No. First time.”

“Well, shit.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll find out what’s going on and resolve it.” Peter’s gaze catches on the table, and his voice turns icy. “What are those?”

Stiles turns to see the open packet of all dressed chips. “My afternoon snack.”

“I’ve been procuring information, hiding my tracks in the hotel, hiding _myself_ from humans, under not inconsiderable stress, and you’ve been here eating _junk_?”

Stiles holds up his palm and lets electricity crackle at the end of his fingertips. “Not quite.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh good. You’ve been practising. Nice to see that particular trick re-emerge. Great work.” He points at the chips. “Now throw those out.”

Stiles clutches the bag to him. “Hell no. This flavour is awesome.”

There’s a stare-off, which Peter ends by turning to the pile of books and picking up the one on ley lines. “I think Lydia has given us several clues to information we could collect. Let’s keep working.” He settles on the bed with the book and the cocoa.

Stiles doesn’t really want to tackle more magic exercises, not after his session in the forest, but he’s most of the way through the primer now. Plus there’s that reminder that if he studies, he’ll be okay.

Ahhh yeah. He has to get back to his timeline. Somehow he’s forgotten that.

He settles down with a sigh and stuffs a handful of chips in his face.

The next section in the primer is called _Miscellaneous_. Underneath it is a scribble: _Yeah, I couldn’t think of a better title, sue me. You do better when it’s your turn. Here’s where everything else goes._

There’s no subsection listing to it, so when Stiles turns the page over and sees the title _Time travel_, his heart jumps into his throat.

_If I remember right, you’re reading this before leaving the village. You’ve got an idea of what’s happened, but not why, and you’re aware of just how little Peter knows. I really wish I could tell you both more, but time travel paradoxes, potential other outcomes etc etc. It’s difficult to judge how much to say here. _

_My research shows that time travel is best not attempted at all. There are so many variables which combine to produce a particular effect. So many coincidences and so many things people do which can affect what happens. I’ve tried to set things up the best way I can, but when it’s your turn, you’ll have an opportunity to do something different._

_My advice: find Lydia, and focus on that. Don’t get sidetracked, and don’t overthink why things have happened the way they have or why this primer is written in this way. Just be in the moment._

Stiles is eating like crazy, he’s so wound up. Old Stiles is messing with him and he’s damn right that Stiles is going to do something different when he gets back. Within reason.

“That was vaguely charming when you were younger,” Peter says from the bed. “Not so much now.”

Stiles loudly crunches through his mouthful and swallows before saying, “Newsflash: I don’t care what you find charming. Deal with it.” He digs into the grocery bag and throws Peter the granola bars. “There. Maybe that’ll help _you_ be more charming.”

“I _am_ hungry.” Peter gazes at the granola bars, then at his phone. “Stiles, we should go for proper food.”

Stiles pauses mid-crunch. It’s now solidly into the evening and it’s been a busy afternoon. A meal sounds ideal. He rolls up the bag. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

Peter drains his mug and walks around getting ready. Stiles notices leftover marshmallow foam on his mouth and points it out. “You got something there.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Something?”

“Marshmallow or milk or something.” Stiles can tell he’s playing. “Dude, you’re a werewolf, you can smell exactly where it is.”

“I suppose I could.” Peter shrugs on his jacket and goes over to Stiles, all innocence. “But, honey, help me out? Where exactly is it?”

Stiles goes hot all over. Either Peter’s making fun or this is Peter’s idea of flirting. Stiles could get whiplash from how much Peter swaps between sincerity and sarcasm. Okay, sometimes he’s noticed the change is because Peter’s uncomfortable, and it’s weird how Stiles can see that now, but with a mood like this, Stiles is kind of lost. Because if there’s one thing Stiles doesn’t connect with Peter, it’s pure silliness.

Stiles points at the same location on his own mouth. “Here.”

Peter steps in closer, eyes intent. “Stiles.”

Still, if he’s going to play with Stiles, then maybe Stiles will just have to play back.

Hardly believing he’s doing it, Stiles reaches up and cups Peter’s jaw. He runs his thumb up Peter’s skin—prickly with stubble, but soft underneath, which _is not erotic, Stiles, stop it stop it stop it_—to the corner of his mouth, then swipes the smear of foam off. Peter waits a beat, then he mouths Stiles’ thumb between his lips. Stiles’ heart skips a beat, and he flushes as Peter’s tongue rolls around his thumb. Hot, firm, wet. Slight suction. Pleasure shivers from his thumb through the rest of him, and all Stiles can do is watch. All he _wants_ to do is watch.

But somehow a higher brain function reminds him this is a game and Stiles gently pulls himself free of Peter’s mouth. Peter’s lids are lowered and he murmurs, “Delicious.”

Stiles’ entire hand tingles. He’s never done something like that with anyone. It’s so small, almost banal, and it should be stupid but it’s not, it’s freaking _hot_. Stiles is alert, awake, ready. For what, he’s not sure. Or he is sure, but he can’t admit it.

“We should—” His voice breaks. Fuck. He clears his throat. “We should get you actual food.”

“Any time you want to feed me,” Peter says, “just say the word.”

Stiles has to look away. Oh god that’s cheesy. It’s _so _cheesy. From anyone else it would be unbearable, but somehow Peter makes the line work. All Stiles can think of now is more fingers in Peter’s mouth, which would be incredible if just one could provoke this kind of reaction, and, yup, brain’s rapidly moving onto certain other things sliding into Peter’s mouth, which would no doubt be even _better_—

“Stiles.” Peter’s voice is raspy, which isn’t helping anything. “We don’t have to go out for food.”

Right then, there’s an audible growl from Peter’s stomach.

A little relieved, Stiles forces those images back. For the future. Or something. “I think your stomach has other ideas, dude.” He pats his pockets, checking for his wallet and phone. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [All dressed chips](https://www.ruffles.com/products/ruffles-all-dressed-flavored-potato-chips) freaking rock


	14. Chapter 14

They find an Italian place near the shorefront and that’s how Stiles discovers himself seated across from Peter at a table for two in a cosy corner. The lighting is low and warm, the other diners and the soft classical music are pleasant background noise, their table has a freaking white table cloth, there’s a lit candle stuck in a bottle on it, the serving staff are dressed all in black, and the napkins are cloth. _Cloth_. Even the menus are fancy—the meals are printed on textured cream paper bound in soft leather. Stiles kind of wants to rub the menu against his face, it feels so soft. When he sees the prices, he sucks in a breath. “Peter.”

Peter looks up. “Mm?”

“This place is _expensive_.”

Peter looks amused. “I’d say it’s reasonable considering its reputation and location.”

“Can we afford this?”

“Yes.” Peter’s eyes crinkle. “Stiles, you alone could easily afford this.”

Stiles can’t imagine that. He really can’t. In college he has a budget and he sticks to it, mostly because Roscoe needs his maintenance to keep running and Stiles will never deny his baby anything, and debt is racking up despite getting what scholarships he can. To him fancy is lunchtime specials at the steakhouse several blocks from campus—that’s where he’s taken dates. A meal for two there plus drinks is what one entrée here costs. It’s obscene.

He leans forward and hisses, “So is the pasta here made with fairy dust and edible glitter? Is it going to be served on a platter made from unicorn horn? Will it find Lydia for us?”

Peter sets down his menu and rests his chin on his hands, waiting.

“Because,” Stiles continues, voice low, “there’s _no other reason_ to pay _this_ much for carbonara, you get me?”

Peter stays quiet. Their server comes over and, unasked, fills their water glasses, sets down a bread basket of rosemary focaccia—Stiles can smell how fresh it is—and a bowl of oil and vinegar, plus a bowl of olives. “While you decide, gentlemen,” she says cheerfully before moving away.

“This—” Peter waves his hand at the spread before them “—is why the carbonara is priced the way it is. I imagine it’s authentic too—not bulked up with cream or milk, made with free-range eggs, and cooked during an argument about the inclusion of garlic or not.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. He has no idea how to make carbonara, or any other pasta sauce that doesn’t come from a jar.

“Relax," Peter continues. "Order what you want. I assure you, the two of us don’t have money concerns.”

Stiles remembers that Peter was loaded twelve years ago and is clearly loaded now; that helps him calm down. He can pretend Peter’s paying.

Wait.

He mentally steps back and views this scene. This is very date-like. This is _incredibly_ date-like. He can’t think like that—the pressure gets to him and during every date he’s had, he breaks something or spills a drink or says total nonsense.

This isn’t a date. Really, it can't be. They're eating as friends.

Well. Sort of.

After all, he and Peter are _married_.

“This reminds me of one of our first dates,” Peter says, eyes on his menu.

Stiles rattles the table, he’s so quick to lean forward. “_Really_? We came somewhere like this?”

“Guess you’re going to find out, aren’t you?”

Stiles plucks the biggest piece of focaccia out the bread basket. “Why even share that if you’re not going to follow through? Weak, dude.”

“I don’t want to spoil the joy that is dating me.” Peter closes his menu and dips a piece in the oil and vinegar. “Those dates should be firsts at the same time for both of us.”

“That’s kind of an impossibility now,” Stiles points out.

Peter raises his eyebrows.

Stiles realises what he’s just implied. “Uh.”

“Does this feel like a date to you, Stiles?” Peter suddenly notices he’s left the bread in too long. He has to catch oil drops in his palm as he transfers the bread to his mouth.

Stiles still hasn’t chosen what he wants. He looks down at his menu, not wanting to see Peter’s expression. He can feel his cheeks growing hot and this is really the last thing he wants.

“Stiles.”

He grinds out, “Yeah, it does. Have you seen this place? How could it not be?”

When Peter doesn’t immediately respond, Stiles glances up. Peter’s watching him with a strange expression that Stiles isn’t sure how to interpret. He says eventually, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay. Consider this a date.” There’s a small smile on Peter face. “I always enjoy our dates.”

Stiles wants to squirm. After what happened in the B&B room, he’s as good as declared his interest—without actually saying it.

But this _does_ feel date-like.

It’s surreal . . . but not bad.

He focuses back on the menu.

When their server returns, they place their orders—Stiles gets something with shaved truffle because that sounds badass, and Peter goes for something Stiles can’t pronounce—and then the conversation stalls.

After five long quiet minutes, they’ve finished the focaccia and Stiles can’t take it anymore. “Does it bug you?”

Peter looks up from the fork he’s playing with. “What?”

“The date thing. You seem a little bugged.”

Peter shakes his head. “Just considering how a day or two can make big changes.” His eyes gleam. “You like me.”

Stiles’ face is going hot again. “Did I say that? No. No I didn’t.”

“But this is a date. Your first date with me.” Peter rolls the fork between his fingers. “You have to like me a little.”

Stiles clenches his jaw. “I am _entertaining_ the _potential_ of liking you. That’s where I’m at. That’s what dates are for. Evaluation.”

Peter clutches his chest. “How romantic.”

Stiles tries to figure out if Peter is uncomfortable. He doesn’t seem to be. He seems pleased.

Or he does until his face falls and he stops fidgeting with the fork. “I’ve just realised something, Stiles. This isn’t my first date with you, but it is yours with me.” Peter leans his chin in his hand. “For you, whatever we experience out here happened before you asked me out, which means many firsts ahead of you. I’ll have to be very careful.”

He doesn’t seem to realise he’s slipped up and Stiles doesn’t tell him. _Before you asked me out_. What’s kind of galling is that it means Peter was telling the truth the very first time he told Stiles about them. He’s never going to live it down.

Stiles waves at him. “The primer had a note from Old Stiles to just be in the moment. You can’t overthink this stuff. Yeah, it’s annoying that you keep hinting at past things with me, but . . .” He shrugs. “What can we do? Either of us?”

“You make a good point.” Peter seems perkier at this. “Of course, if there’s anything you want to try, just say the word.” He winks.

Stiles sighs heavily. Back to sarcastic Peter. “You’re teasing me. Could you not?”

“Teasing? I’m serious.”

“Yeah right.”

“Stiles.” Peter’s gaze has turned intense and he’s unusually still. “The normal, day-to-day reality of our relationship for me is that we’re all over each other. The affection flows. The reason I’m not touching you _right now_ is because of your situation and your request that I don’t. It’s sometimes frustratingly hard to not have you the way I’m used to. Maybe you don't want to hear this yet, but yes, Stiles, I want you. I always do. Anything you want to do with me, just say. I’m a sure bet.”

Stiles’ face is burning. He buries it in his arms on the table. “Not a slowed roll.”

“Ah, the bashfulness. It’s nice to see that again.”

_How_ is this even real? Old Stiles said it was real. He was right. “I wish I’d recorded this. I can’t believe it. Did I have to magic you to think I’m fuckable?”

“No. Believe me, you’re more than fuckable.” Peter sips his water. “I also forgot about this self-deprecating side of yours. You lost it a while ago. For someone so intelligent, it took you remarkably long to see your strengths and to understand why someone would be attracted to you.”

Stiles raises his head. “Holy shit, Peter. _Peter_. That’s actually _romantic_.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “No, you just think it is because you’re too young to know better. Raise your standards.” He smirks. “Oh wait. You did already.”

Stiles groans. He can’t handle this. “Is _this_ how you won me over? Compliments? Because that’s totally going to work. Or did work. Damn it.”

Peter’s smirking constantly now. “Compliments only work up to a point, as do my exceptional skills in the bedroom. No, the way I drew you in was to cook for you. The first time I made you my pea, peppermint, and pomegranate risotto, you knelt at my feet and pledged your allegiance, hand in marriage, your firstborn, and all your worldly assets, in exchange for having me make you that dish for the rest of our—”

“You’re not funny.”

“_Heartily_ disagree.”

Their server pours them wine. Stiles tastes it and it’s like velvet in his mouth. Suddenly all those stupid people saying shit like _I can taste caramelised figs and sunshine on icy fields_ about wine make sense—he’s got a massive hit of blackberry and something dark and earthy.

“You look like you’re having an experience,” Peter remarks.

Stiles holds up his glass. “Yup. We’re divorcing. I need to elope with this wine.”

Peter laughs and sips it. “Yes, this is excellent.”

“Do I want to know how much it—”

“Absolutely not.” Peter takes a few more sips then says, “Remind me what’s happening around the time you left.”

Stiles tells him about the gryphon and college. Peter reflects on what he was doing at the time, though he admits he’s forgotten details. “I know I was keeping track of acquaintances and contacts for the pack,” he muses, “doing some law consultancy on the side, keeping Beacon Hills relatively free of bad players and hunters . . .” His expression turns evil. “Making full use of Tindr.”

Their server brings more bread and salads for them.

Stiles can only imagine just how much Peter used Tindr. “I’m sure you kept the single population of Beacon Hills very happy,” he mutters as he digs into the salad.

“It was mutual, I assure you.”

“Sure.” Stiles has latched onto a different detail. “Law. You’re doing law?”

Peter nods. “I was doing it at the time, and I’m doing it now. Part-time, of course. My husband is very demanding and keeps me busy most of the time.”

“How terrible for you.”

Their conversation drifts from law to types of office work and then to career choices. Stiles admits that prior to this little deviation from normal life, he was planning on law enforcement. “Clearly that didn’t work out,” he says.

Peter makes a face. “I . . . don’t want to say.”

Stiles spreads his hands. “Seriously? Deaton already spilled that I’m some badass spellcaster who’s basically running his own business. What more is there to know?”

Peter frowns. “Everything that’s happened up until now is history to me. Hindsight makes things look inevitable. I know you have an idea of what you’re doing now, and I know you’ll want to ensure this paradox is fulfilled once you return. But for you, there’s still a lot of choices and decisions to be made. In my opinion, you should try to make decisions about your career organically, not pursuing some vague understanding based on skipping ahead in time.”

That makes sense. “So act like this never happened?” Stiles says.

Peter nods. “Yes. Try. As you told yourself, live in the moment and don't think about the rest of it too much.”

Stiles files that as a problem for when he’s back in his timeline.

Their pastas arrive and they’re incredible. His turns out to be packets stuffed with a creamy root vegetable filling and topped with brown butter and shavings of truffle, and Stiles has honestly never tasted anything like it. Peter has what turns out to be veal in an amazing sauce that he reveals has tuna in it. Stiles has never had tuna which doesn’t taste like tuna before. He’s ruined for pasta chains now. He’ll never be able to eat Italian without comparing it to this evening.

Their conversation meanders from the food to the location to travel, future travel plans, things they wanted to do . . . It’s pleasant. Surprising. Stiles hasn’t ever seen Peter relaxed and open like this. It’s not as if the pack go out for nice meals and sit around discussing their lives; there’s no time or real need to do that when they’re so involved in each other’s lives already. Who’d’ve thought Peter could be _normal?_

Still, as the evening draws on, it’s obvious they’re avoiding one major topic of conversation. Stiles doesn’t want to talk shop and it seems Peter doesn’t want to either.

At the end of the meal, after Peter has requested the check, Stiles plays with the stem of his empty glass and says, “This was really good.”

“Agreed.” Peter pauses. “You don’t seem happy.”

“While we’re in here, Lydia could be in pain or trouble.” Or dead, his mind helpfully supplies.

Peter nods. “She could be.”

“And we’re here having a good time.” Stiles gestures at the restaurant. “Eating amazing food.”

“We planned to use today for research,” Peter reminds him. “Going in there uninformed isn’t an option. Being informed takes time. We’ll meet Alpha Bowen tomorrow morning and exchange information, then plan next steps.”

“We’re probably going in.”

“Yes.”

Stiles knows he’s right, but something in him just wants to dive into the forest anyway. Get moving, _do_ something. “I’m going to lay down _all_ of the protective spells in the primer on us and everything we have,” he says.

Peter leans back. “I’d expect no less from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Vitello tonnato](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vitello_tonnato) is the dish Peter gets - strictly speaking a restaurant like this wouldn't serve it in winter, but I love it and it's my story so here we are. I made up Stiles'. It's based on an agnolotti dish I had in a restaurant once, [similar to this](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/butternut-squash-agnolotti), but with truffle oil on top.


	15. Chapter 15

They pay for their meal and hustle back through the night to their B&B. It’s fucking freezing, the kind of cold Stiles has only heard about—hurt-the-lungs and freeze-nose-hairs cold. He wonders how anyone can live here year-round and he resolves to only ever live in warm places.

They’re meeting Bowen tomorrow morning and are hoping Deaton and Scott have dug up information they can use about mass effect spells. Peter has also requested tracking information for Lydia’s phone, and they realise this implies Lydia assumed her technology would work in the forest. They’re not sure if that’s true, given no one’s heard from the people who live in the affected area, but perhaps Bowen and her emissary can give them more information.

When they get back, they clear Peter’s work off the bed and Stiles stacks the books he brought to one side. He pulls out the _Labyrinths_ one and looks at the blurb, wondering why Old Stiles suggested it. He puts it on the table next to his side of the bed, then pauses.

Because they’re sharing a bed.

Last night hadn’t been an issue—both of them had been too tired to think or care about anything than sleep—but now Stiles has time and space to realise he’s willingly sharing a bed with Peter Hale. He’s tired again and all he wants to do is sleep. All Peter better want to do is sleep too, if he knows what’s good for him.

Peter heads for the bathroom but leaves the door open, meaning Stiles hears him as he undresses and showers. It’s unexpected, and Stiles isn’t sure what to do. He’s shared rooms with friends before, but Peter isn’t exactly a friend. He’s not sure what Peter is anymore.

Well, definitely Peter is stark naked right now, with soap and water all over him, running off him, down his body, with all that smooth skin and pecs and abs and muscled thighs and nooooooooo there’s no need to go there.

He sits on the bed with his back to the bathroom and picks up the book. Opening it, he stares at it without taking a damn thing in. He hears the shower stop and Peter step out, then the sound of brushing teeth follows.

What exactly does Old Stiles do in this situation? What do couples usually do? Stiles honestly doesn’t know. Go in there and brush together? Weird from where he’s standing but who the hell knows. He doesn’t. Old Stiles does. Oh god, is there a future where he’ll stand with Peter Hale and brush their teeth together?! Like it’s _normal_ for them?

He’s overthinking it now.

He puts the book down and starts digging through his bag for sleep stuff and toiletries. When Peter emerges, Stiles is playing a game on his phone, his leg bouncing nervously. He turns around and his mouth goes dry: Peter is wearing just a towel and is rubbing another over his wet hair. It’s not fair. He’s got broad shoulders and his biceps bunch round and hard as he dries his hair. His toned pecs are covered in light hair, but his abs are hair-free and _chiselled_. He’s got a freaking eight-pack. Fucking werewolves. Stiles keeps going down, seeing iliac furrows and another trail of hair leading below the towel and _oh hell_—

“Bathroom’s free,” Peter says.

Stiles jumps up way too quickly. “Fantastic!” He rounds the bed and slips past Peter, trying hard not to look at him. He fails as he turns to close the door—he sees Peter’s back muscles as they flex with his arm movements and _nnnngod_ he’s never wanted to lick a person before and now he _does_.

He shuts the door and locks it for good measure, then showers. It’s a little difficult to calm down, but he manages it without jerking off. Peter would know and it’s the last thing Stiles needs him to know right now. He soaps up then lets the water run cold, then gets out. Flosses, brushes his teeth, examines every single item Old Stiles packed for him, brushes his teeth again, changes into his sleep stuff then hangs up his towel and now he’s out of things to do in there.

When he unlocks the door and comes out, Peter is in bed reading the ley lines book—shirtless, of course. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he says without looking at Stiles. “I don’t have to be a werewolf to know you’re nervous.”

Stiles scoffs. “Me, _nervous_?” and hugs the wall as he goes around to his side.

Peter looks up and raises an eyebrow. “Relax. I never put out on the first date.”

“I _wasn’t asking, _Peter.” Stiles approaches the bed and wonders if he should maybe just sleep on the floor. “But for the record, places like this usually have twin bed options.”

“That isn’t worth dignifying with a response.” Peter turns the page.

Stiles is getting cold now, so he climbs in, staying very close to the edge. He pulls the covers up to his neck and stares at the ceiling.

“I gave my word, Stiles,” Peter reminds him.

Stiles gives him a thumbs up. “Great. Tell that to the shirt you forgot to put on.”

Peter bares his teeth. “And deprive you of a show? I couldn’t do that.” He ruins the effect by yawning.

“I want my money back.” Stiles keeps glancing over at him, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Peter’s distracting. “What’s the book say?”

“I’m trying to find information we don’t already know.” Peter yawns again and this time Stiles does too. “So far, not much. I wish there was more time.”

So does Stiles. He wishes they knew where Lydia was. He abruptly wishes this wasn’t his life. How can he and Peter be so calm about all of this? It’s insane.

Stiles gives up and rolls onto his side, facing Peter. “Hey. Do we have therapists?”

That gets him a bewildered look. “_What_?”

“I’m serious. We should.”

“And what therapists would take _us_ on?” Peter gestures between them. “The vast majority aren’t trained in the kind of issues we face.”

“There have to be some who know about the supernatural.”

Peter shakes his head, looking bemused. “Not that I or anyone else know of.”

“That surprises me.” Now Stiles is yawning. “You know everyone.”

“It’s not a thought that's occurred to me,” Peter admits. “You think I need one?”

Stiles shrugs. “I mean, yeah? I dunno if I need one _now_, but I’m thinking it’ll be useful at some point. What, you think we _don’t_?”

Peter doesn’t answer. Stiles closes his eyes and listens to Peter’s breaths. They’re soft and even, and soothing to listen to. Stiles murmurs, “It’s just a suggestion,” and drifts off.

*

The morning finds Stiles rested and cosy, though a little groggy. Jet lag doesn’t leave easily. Peter is pressed against him again, but back-to-back this time. He’s like a heater behind Stiles; it’s pleasant. He starts to doze off.

A vibrating phone rouses both of them. Stiles reaches for his phone, realises it’s not his, and nudges Peter. “S’yours.”

Peter mutters something and moves away from Stiles, then falls onto his back, phone in hand. Stiles rolls over to watch him speak to whoever is calling him. Peter says, “Is it? My apologies.” He scrubs at his eyes with his free hand then stretches, then folds his arm under his pillow, making his bicep and tricep pop. He does all of this without looking at Stiles or acknowledging how the covers are slipping down his chest. Such a cliché, honestly.

“Noted,” Peter says. “I’ll pass it on. See you soon.” He hangs up. “Bowen’s pushing our appointment back one hour.”

Stiles blinks at him a few time before his brain comes online. “Oh. Okay?”

“It’s fine. It gives us a little extra time for breakfast downstairs.” Peter adjusts his position in bed in a way that requires arching his body and letting the sheets slip down just a little more. Stiles can't seem to stop looking. “Stiles, are you paying attention?”

“You’re not subtle either,” Stiles says.

Peter smirks. “Or modest.” He scratches the middle of his chest and Stiles has to turn over. His phone lights up with the arrival of a text and Stiles picks it up.

Deaton has sent GPS coordinates to him and Peter, saying this location was where Lydia’s phone last sent an update. When Stiles clicks on them, the resulting map shows him the middle of the forest. It’s close to the freeway which leads from the village to the town in the middle of the affected area. Stiles is tempted to say they ignore Bowen and head in there, but Peter was right about going in prepared. He hopes she’s still there.

He notes the time and realises the B&B stops serving breakfast in half an hour. He rolls out of bed and heads for the bathroom. Peter watches him go, looking like a pinup, and hasn’t moved by the time Stiles emerges. He’s ridiculous, and Stiles reminds himself he wants food. _Food_.

He starts dressing. Peter watches without saying anything, eventually getting out of bed and coming closer. Stiles ignores him, pulling on a sweater. His head pops through the neckhole and oh okay, now Peter's standing _very_ close.

There’s a lot of skin. A _lot_.

Stiles has to consciously close his mouth. _Breakfast_, he reminds himself. That’s what he wants. Co-coffee.

Peter reaches out. “Let me just . . .” He adjusts the collar of Stiles’ shirt under the sweater, then trails his fingers down and jerks at the hem of the shirt. It pulls into better alignment against Stiles’ body, a full-torso sensation.

“Peter,” Stiles manages.

He somehow takes a step closer. “Just making sure you’re presentable, sweetheart.”

Stiles is half-hard and he’s certain Peter knows it. “You could do that with a shirt on.”

Peter’s eyes dance with glee. “Yes, I could.” His fingers find the gap of skin between the shirt and the top of Stiles’ waistband. He run them around to the back of Stiles’ shirt, sending shivers up Stiles’ body, then lightly pulls the back hem down.

Stiles can’t remember when he last breathed. He stares at Peter, feels warm hands come to rest on his hips, and isn’t sure he wants this moment to end.

Peter’s thumb rubs gently over Stiles’ skin, then he’s backing away. “Save me some coffee.”

Now there’s air in the space between them and Stiles inhales deeply. He stumbles away blindly, then recovers enough to let himself out of the room and downstairs without falling over something. He sits brooding over coffee and a plate of eggs and toast until Peter joins him, thankfully clothed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly-scheduled plot.

They don’t mention the morning as they head out to meet Bowen. She wants to meet them by the jetty, outside on the street. As they walk through the streets, Stiles keeps catching glimpses of the forest between houses, and he’s glad when they reach the shorefront and find Bowen sitting on a bench facing the tiny marina.

With her are two people they haven’t seen before: a middle-aged woman leaning against the waist-high wall that runs the length of the jetty, and a scrawny man in his late twenties sitting next to Bowen. The woman leans with her arms crossed, face closed-off and watchful as Stiles and Peter approach. The man keeps glancing in the direction of the forest and seems relieved to see them.

“Gentlemen.” Bowen stands and gestures to her packmates. “This is Naomi, my left hand, and Paul, my emissary.”

Everyone shakes hands, then Stiles sits on the bench. Peter continues standing, arms crossed like Naomi. Paul pulls out a tablet and immediately starts talking. “So we’ve been monitoring disappearances and diversions for just a few weeks but it’s been enough that I’ve deciphered what I _think_ is a pattern, I mean it’s obvious once you realise it, but you have to trial these things first. Me and my apprentice have tried going in and both of us were diverted as was Bowen and she falls into the same category so my best guess is magic-users and not magic-users, you follow?”

Stiles blinks and tries to. “Uh—you mean magic-users get diverted, everyone else gets trapped in there?”

Paul nods. “Exactly, exactly, though remember this is my best guess, it’s an educated one but a guess nonetheless, this thing is so _tricky_, it’s honestly fascinating as well as horrible.”

Bowen jumps in. “We’ve tried other kinds of monitoring.”

Paul lights up. “Yes, yes, we have, look at this.” His long fingers dance across the tablet screen. “We scanned the area near here yesterday and I saw a lot of dead trees and withering, like a _lot_, moreso than winter normally produces. Downed trees, petrification, bushes that are just kindling now, just very strange and very sad.” On the tablet an image appears.

“What spell did you use?” Stiles asks.

Paul frowns at him. “Spell? Naw, man, I used a drone, check it out.” He taps the image and it turns into a video of forest footage. Stiles and Peter lean over and watch. The video shows an obvious trail of dead trees in the forest. Near the end of the clip, the picture goes staticky before going dark.

Paul hums. “Yeah, that was weird, the drone was working fine, I could keep it flying, but the picture didn’t show shit for a while there. I brought it back when I realised it wasn’t going to get anymore footage, but but but you notice how there’s a trail, like a distinction between dead trees and living ones?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“I think it’s a ley line.” Paul brings up a map of the region with blue lines superimposed over it. They swoop through the region, extending along the coast and through the forest. There’s a convergence point some ways north of the village. “I flew the drone over this part—” he points along a ley line that goes through the village and into the forest “—and the trail coincides almost exactly, which makes me think the ley lines are involved somehow, which when you really think about it has to be obvious right? This map is from early this morning, by the way, I did a spell to see how the lines are laid out and I discovered something!” He taps at the convergence point of the blue lines. “So this is where the lines converge, and _look_.” He swipes across the screen and the map is replaced by another, where the lines are laid out slightly differently and the convergence point is very obviously in a different place. “This map is from last year when I did the annual scan and see?! Isn't that _weird_?”

“Shit,” Peter says. “Someone’s moving the ley lines.”

“Not just that.” Paul swipes back to the previous image. “The convergence point is usually our nemeton, but the convergence point _has moved_ and trees can’t move like that so whatever’s going on means that someone’s taken control of the ley lines!” His fingers drum excitedly along the back of the tablet. “I didn’t know you could _do_ that!”

Stiles exchanges a worried glance with Peter. “Neither did I.”

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Peter says.

“Darach,” Paul says. “Has to be, I mean, who else would even attempt something like this.”

Bowen chimes in, “Your packmate thought it was a Darach too. I wasn’t convinced at the time, but seeing this and hearing your experiences, now I am.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He thought they were here for Lydia, but suddenly there’s a Darach to deal with. Granted, finding Lydia is going to be easier without the Darach fucking up the search area. He looks over the map again and asks, “Can you send this to me?”

Paul nods. “No problem.”

Peter’s looking at Bowen. “What do you suggest?”

She looks serious. “Arming ourselves and driving in to that convergence point together. It’s about a full day’s drive away. Paul will cover us with spells to offset the area effect and we’ll be as prepared as we can.”

Peter and Stiles share a look, and Stiles knows for a fact that Peter doesn’t like this. He doesn’t either. Bowen seems on the level, and in some ways having others as back up is reassuring. In other ways, they’re more people who could be hurt—or worse. Stiles doesn’t know Bowen or her pack, he has no idea how trustworthy they are.

But they don’t have a better plan.

“We’ll join you,” Peter says. “We didn’t bring much in terms of weapons, but we’ll bring what we have.”

Bowen nods. They arrange to meet mid-afternoon at the main road out of town heading inland. It goes through the forest to the main town between the coast and the Canadian border. Stiles can’t help noticing it runs parallel to the village ley line, and he thinks this is the route Lydia would’ve taken. They iron out details and separate.

Back at the B&B, Peter and Stiles pack for the trip. Stiles throws his clothes and snacks into his bag then presses his books in, ignoring the crunching of wrappers and chip bags. Peter rolls his stuff up and fits it neatly into his bag. Stiles doesn’t know how he has the patience for packing tetris.

“I don’t like this plan,” Stiles says eventually.

“Me either.” Peter turns to him. “I think it’s our best approach, but we’ll need to keep an eye on them as well as the situation.”

Stiles frowns. “Why? Did you dig up dirt on Bowen and her pack?”

“In the middle of it. I’ll know more later.” Peter comes over to him, phone in hand. “Did Paul send you that map yet? I have a hunch.”

Stiles brings the map on his phone and Peter brings up Lydia’s phone coordinates on a map on his phone. Side-by-side, it’s clear that her phone is in the same place as the new convergence of the ley lines.

Stiles exhales sharply. “Good hunch.”

Peter doesn’t seem pleased. “At least we’re heading in the right direction. It could be worse.”

Stiles isn’t sure how, but it’s pointless to mention it. They check out, with Peter thanking the staff so warmly for their wonderful service that Stiles does a double-take—he's practically _effusive,_ it's bizarre to watch—then head for their rental. Peter goes for the driver’s seat and Stiles lets him. He wants to read that labyrinth book, because the title is getting to him now that they’re heading into the belly of the beast.

They head to the grocery store and stock up on water and food—just in case—then drive to the junction on the edge of the village where they’ll meet Bowen.

Stiles calls Scott on their way there and tells him what they’re doing. Scott doesn’t like it, predictably, but wishes them luck and tells them to keep in touch. “If you two disappear, I’m going to send Derek, Braeden and Erica after you,” he says. “So don’t disappear, okay?”

Stiles smiles. “Got it, buddy.”

Scott's voice is warm. “Yeah. Get our banshee back.”

Stiles then flips through the primer to the defensive spells section. The ones with notes like _for the car_ and _to be cast before crossing_ make sense now, so he works through them. They seem to be magic aversion spells, which is all excellent. He hopes somehow he can pay back Old Stiles for this. It’s so helpful. Then he remembers Old Stiles isn't a separate person so he decides to buy himself something nice once he's back in his timeline.

He and Peter get out of the car so he can get to work. He casts several on the car, Peter, and himself at the same time, then finds a tiny note saying _for peter_ next to an anti-trickery spell. He reads through the instructions, then turns to Peter. “Here’s one just for you.”

“Oh goody,” Peter says.

“Hold out your hands.” He does. Stiles takes them, feeling the buzzing settle as usual. He can still manipulate his magic though, and he focuses on the spell, sending magic through their hands to settle over Peter like a blanket. Peter watches him silently.

When Stiles is done, he feels the magic separate from him and sink into Peter’s skin. The spell will hold until the area effect is broken, according to the instructions, and Stiles feels better knowing Peter will be protected. Their hands are warm in each others' grip, beating back the cold of the Maine winter.

“You should be okay now,” Stiles tells him. “No voices, hopefully.”

Peter smiles. The day is clear like yesterday, so Peter’s eyes again reflect the sky above them. The trees around them are lined with snow, and the junction is picturesque sitting where it is between the forest and the village. It’s calm and quiet. Peter’s smile fits here, better than expected. It brings out a rare brightness in him; his entire face lights up. Stiles’ breath catches in his lungs and it’s not due to the cold winter air.

“Thank you,” Peter says. He pulls Stiles’ hand up and kisses the knuckles.

Stiles stares at him, mouth open. He just . . . who told him he could do that? Heat rolls through him and he can feel his cheeks growing hot again. He's never blushed this much in his _life._

Peter grins. "How's that evaluation going?"

Stiles doesn’t think at all. He's only human, goddammit, and this is the final straw of many. He steps forward and presses his mouth to Peter’s. There’s a soft sound of surprise, then Peter’s kissing back fiercely and winding one arm around Stiles to pull him close. There’s more heat rushing through Stiles and his heart is rabbiting in his chest—but it’s good, it’s better than he imagined, it's insane and amazing. Peter tastes of mint and winter, his lips firm and hot. He kisses with zero hesitation or doubt, like Stiles is the only person worth kissing, and he's almost professionally excellent at this. There's a gentle scrape of teeth against Stiles' bottom lip, the lightest of tongue flickering, and it's easy, so easy to get lost in kissing him. He doesn’t push it far, and when Stiles ends the kiss and steps back, Peter lets him go.

He's dizzy. He needs a minute. Maybe half an hour. Their breaths form white clouds in the air and Stiles can’t help noticing Peter’s breathing just as heavily as he is.

“So,” Peter says.

"The evaluation," Stiles tries not to gasp. "Yeah. It's, uh, it's going okay." Like it's not obviously going super well.

Peter tilts his head and looks outraged. "_Okay_? Why kiss me at all if _okay_ is what you're going to say?"

Stiles has to be honest now. He can't not be. “Because I wanted to.”

Peter scoffs, but his eyes crinkle and his voice is warm when he says, “Great answer, sweetheart.”


	17. Chapter 17

Stiles immediately wants to kiss him again, but the sound of incoming vehicles distracts him. They turn to the road and watch as a motorcycle and Jeep pull up and stop near them. The cyclist gets off and reveals herself to be Naomi, but Stiles only has eyes for the Jeep. It’s mid-nineties, obviously not as vintage as Roscoe, but in excellent condition and a gleaming black colour. It’s _gorgeous_. He walks towards it as Bowen gets out.

Behind him, Peter sighs. “Oh no.”

Stiles touches the hood. “This is your car?”

Bowen grins. “Yup.”

“She’s beautiful,” Stiles breathes.

“Stiles,” Peter says.

“For sure she is.” Bowen pats the side of the car. “Cold as shit in this weather, but I wouldn’t want to drive anything else.”

“What’s her name?”

“You don’t have to make friends with the Jeep,” Peter calls.

“Beverly,” Bowen replies.

Peter curses. “You do this _every_ time.”

“I have a Jeep.” Stiles starts walking around it. He can sense magic simmering in it, and notices Paul wrapped up in a large puffy coat in the passenger seat. “Roscoe. Best Jeep on the west coast.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, sounding annoyed. “The Jeep is dead. It broke down mid-escape from a troll. It literally fell apart in the middle of the road and we had to _drag you away_ because you refused to leave it.”

Stiles spins around, horrified. “_What_? He fell apart? My baby _broke_?”

Peter blinks innocently at him. “Ooops.”

“What the _fuck_, Peter?”

Peter glances at Bowen and Naomi, who look confused, then says pointedly, “You have to accept it, sweetheart.”

Stiles realises that this, _this_ is why _spoilers_. “I’m a father who lost his child, how _dare_ you tell me what to do.”

Bowen warily says, “Uh . . . can I just . . . Paul thinks he’s figured out where the new convergence point is. Paul?”

Paul is out of the Jeep now, tapping at his tablet again. “Yes, I used the ley lines mapping to isolate the rough area where the convergence point is, to the tune of maybe 6 square miles give or take, the bad thing is it’s in forest but _fortunately_ this road”—thumbing at the road they’re on—“goes super close so we won’t have to hike far _plus_ seeing as we’ll be driving for a full day we can stop on the way at this lodge”—pointing at a dropped pin en route—“for the night, I mean I think we can, I tried calling them to see if they had vacancies but no one answered so let’s see what we find.”

Stiles takes a moment to parse then nods. “Sure.”

Bowen looks at Peter. “Okay with you?”

Peter shrugs. “Let’s get on the road.”

They pile into or onto their vehicles and start driving. Naomi stays out front, occasionally riding far ahead of the cars to scout for trouble.

In the rental, Peter drives while Stiles holds the primer in his lap. As they cross over into the block, malevolent energy settles over him like a weighted blanket—a little lighter than in the forest, maybe due to the car or extra spells.

“I feel something this time,” Peter mentions. “Strange tickling sensation.”

“No voices?”

“No.”

Stiles is relieved. The protective spells are working. “Good. I can definitely feel it. This is heavy shit.”

Peter nods.

They’re driving behind Bowen’s Jeep, and Stiles asks quietly, “Can you hear them?”

“Yes. Paul’s doing all the talking.”

Not a surprise. But this means that they can hear Peter and Stiles too.

Peter’s realised this because he adds, “But don’t let that stop you from continuing where we left off.”

“Uh-huh. How about you continue focusing on the road.” Stiles is a little pleased though. It’s fun when Peter’s in a good mood. It’s . . . _interesting_ to be the source of that good mood. And to feel good about it.

Maybe he should focus on the fact they’re driving into fuck knows what instead.

He opens the primer back to his place in the miscellaneous section. After the time travel section there’s a sentence saying _cast defensive spells on the car and Peter_. He did that already, cool. The next page just says _read the labyrinth book before proceeding_.

Huh.

He puts the primer aside and picks up the book. It’s huge and there’s no way he’ll get through all of it in time for whatever’s coming up—but it’s not the first time he’s had that problem. The first section is the history of labyrinths and mazes, which he promptly skips for the next one, classification.

_Labyrinths can be classified into the following:_

  * _True, i.e. a unicursal route to a central point_
  * _Classic i.e. the above but with seven routes_

_Mazes are only ever multicursal (as explained in the discussion on the distinction between labyrinths and mazes as used throughout this text, p. 11-92), but may contain:_

  * _none or more central points_
  * _one to many entry points_
  * _one to many routes_

The next section is highlighted in pink and is called _Magic labyrinths and mazes_. Stiles gets comfy.

_Magic mazes—they are usually mazes—are particularly interesting, given the extra dimensions facilitated by the medium. While any labyrinth or maze can be dangerous (depending on the purpose for which it is built), magic mazes are especially so due to the requirement for control and the extent to which magic can bend perception and reality. The history of magic mazes is limited given the amount of magic involved, but both whimsical and sinister designs have been created with the tendency to use travellers’ senses against them: erecting invisible walls, distorting vision and hearing, creating monsters where there are none, disguising other travellers, noises aimed to distract from the path, hallucinations of blockages, transformations, traps, and so on._

_Of course, there is a key weakness to magic mazes: intent. Unlike in physical mazes, where solutions can always be found given time and logic and regardless of the intent behind construction, the intent of the magic maze provides an integral part of the solution for the traveller. Given a magic maze will always have at least one spellcaster responsible for its construction, human fallibility is always present. The intelligent traveller with an understanding of psychology will deduce the purpose of the maze and thus its solution. The intelligent spellcaster will know this and act accordingly when constructing the maze._

Stiles sits back with a really, _really_ shitty feeling in his stomach.

“What?” Peter asks.

Stiles looks up at the forest they’re driving through. Everyone’s sticking to the speed limit, even though they haven’t seen any cars on either side since they started. The magic remains thick on him and the thought of just how much energy that must be is staggering. So is the implication of what that magic is there for.

Some of the descriptions are familiar. _Distorting vision. Noises aimed to distract._ And the section is highlighted.

The thing is, he’s used to a maze being built of walls. There are no walls around them, nothing visual to navigate. There’s no variation in the magic to indicate a path. He’s not sure how this mass effect spell is a maze, but there’s no doubt it tried to trap Peter yesterday.

A hand lands on his thigh. “Stiles.”

“Sooooo,” Stiles says uncertainly, “I think Old—” wait, Bowen can hear them “—_I’ve_ got a theory about this magic field thingy we’re in and what it was doing to you.”

“The way you smell doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“I think it’s a magical maze,” Stiles says slowly, “and it’s going to try and trap us.”

“That second detail I’m already infinitely familiar with,” Peter says, “but that first one sounds absurd.”

“I know.”

“Who sets up a maze half the size of Maine and tries to keep people in it?”

“I _know_.”

The hand on his thigh squeezes. “Keep reading. You can tell me about it at the next pitstop.” Peter puts his hand back on the steering wheel, leaving a pleasant warmth behind.

Stiles flicks through the book and sees more pink sections. Oh boy. Old Stiles isn’t fucking around. And neither, clearly, is the asshole who’s doing all this.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More, uh, raccoon stuff is mentioned in this chapter. With other animals. Just a warning in case that wasn't your jam.

Stiles doesn’t jump to the next pink section, he keeps skimming. The book is focused on design and while it has a weird penchant for labyrinths over mazes, it’s honestly fascinating. Stiles isn’t sure how he missed this particular Wikipedia clickhole, but he’s actually enjoying this. The sections after _Classification_ relate the different components of design: purpose, route, aesthetic, and materials, all with examples and pictures. It’s honestly amazing. The chapter on purpose is full of examples like mythological labyrinths trapping monsters (see: the Minotaur) or protecting treasures (the author argues ancient temples did this; Stiles thinks the maze protecting the Triwizard Cup in _Harry Potter_ is a better example) or providing aimless nobility with a puzzle to solve. He’s deep in an explanation of solution theory and algorithms when he feels the car slowing down.

He looks up and realises they’re on the outskirts of a small town. Peter is slowing down because they’re driving around cars parked in the middle of the road. Cars and—

Stiles stares in disbelief. There’s a person—people—lying in the road, in the snow, _under_ the snow. He spots another body on the sidewalk, a light layer of fresh snow covering her.

The closer to the centre of town they get, the more cars and bodies they have to avoid. Eventually Peter starts making grumbling noises and says, “We should stop and clear the road or we’ll run over someone.” It seems Bowen agrees because the Jeep stops and they stop behind it.

Stiles turns to him. “How can there be so many like this? What could’ve killed them?”

Peter shakes his head. “They’re not dead. I can hear their hearts beating.”

Stiles throws down the book and opens the door as fast as he can. The people are still alive—maybe they can help them. He slips through the snow to the nearest body and almost falls onto it. The guy is breathing, but his eyes are closed and he seems unconscious. Stiles shakes him and yells at him, eventually slapping his face, but nothing gets a response. Despite the snow and the frozen ground, the guy is warm and isn’t frostbitten.

“I think it’s pointless,” Peter says, walking past with three people over his shoulders.

After a while of staring helplessly at the stranger, Stiles has to agree. The people do _seem_ okay, but it’s clear their state is magically-induced. He stands and watches Peter pick up grown men and women like they’re dolls and move them effortlessly to the sidewalk. Once a segment of road is cleared of people, he and Bowen roll cars to the side of the road as though they weigh nothing. It’s kind of hot.

Paul joins Stiles. “Weird, right? I noticed people in some of the cars and I think they were driving when this hit them so further in we’re probably going to see some collisions.”

Stiles grimaces. “This is messed up.”

“Word.” Paul touches the guy Stiles tried to wake up and his face goes still in concentration. After a few moments, he jerks back with a curse. “Shit.”

“What? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine, just shocked.” Paul flaps his hand as though it’s been stung. “I was doing a body scan and you’re right this dude is fine but his energy levels are kind of low so that’s worrying, but anyway I felt my magic being taken.”

Stiles frowns. “_Taken_? Like, as you used it?”

“Yeah.” Paul makes a sucking noise. “From me into this nonsense.” He waves at the air around them, indicating the magic.

“Fucking magic,” Stiles says.

“Fucking magic,” Paul agrees.

“Are you two going to help or what?” Peter calls from down the road. Paul and Stiles share a worried glance then start moving people off the road. They drag them to the side and clear any snow that’s gathered on top of them. Peter and Bowen help, but focus more on moving blocking cars.

Occasionally Stiles stumbles over a dog or a cat or a pigeon. Unlike the humans, they’re dead, nothing left but skin and fur and gristle. He’s reminded of the raccoon he and Peter found, and the association eats away at him. As they clear the road, two people periodically run back and drive the cars further along.

It makes for slow going. Naomi shows up and helps, and they take a break when they reach the centre of the town.

“We don’t have much further to clear,” Naomi says.

“Thank fuck for that.” Paul is visibly shaken. “I wasn’t made for this kind of shit.”

Stiles leans against the rental and drinks some of the water they bought. He turns over Paul’s little discovery and tries to piece together the situation. These people are under a spell, that’s clear—probably the mass effect spell that so far Stiles and his group have avoided experiencing. Maybe this is what would have happened to Peter, had he gone running after those voices. Maybe Peter would be lying in the middle of the forest, eyes closed and trying to breathe through cumulating layers of snow.

Stiles hates this mental image. Fuck his brain.

But ultimately, what’s the point? Why stun these people and keep them down? What is this spell _doing_?

He looks around for Peter, then realises he doesn’t see him anywhere. “Peter?”

“He went into the store.” Bowen points at the general store opposite where they’ve parked the cars for now. Stiles goes over just as Peter pushes through the front door, an open bag of corn nuts in his hand, munching away.

“You rang?” Peter says through his mouthful.

“This is dangerous,” Stiles says. “Don’t just wander off.”

Peter nods and tosses more corn nuts in his mouth.

Stiles goes to turn away when he’s struck by suspicion. “Hey—did you pay for those?”

Peter heaves a disappointed sigh. “Stiles. Really.”

Stiles glares at him.

“I’m dismayed, outraged, and offended that you, my darling much-loved husband, trust me _so little_—”

“Pay for it.”

“I don’t have the right change.” He starts crunching through another mouthful.

Stiles points at the store. “Go back in there and leave money.”

“I thought you said we shouldn’t separate.”

Stiles goes up to him, staring him down. “Peter.”

“Plus,” Peter points out, “it’s completely unnecessary. They—” gesturing around them “—aren’t going to notice. When they wake up, they’ll have more important things to care about than one stray packet of jalapeno cheese corn nuts.”

“It’s the _principle_, Peter.”

Peter laughs. “The principle behind one bag of corn nuts produced in our oversaturated capitalist society and performing the norms of said society when it's functionally absent. Really. You’re adorable.”

Stiles is going to kill him. “I’m also the kid of a sheriff and the law operates regardless of your fancy academic breakdown. You’re not above it.”

“I have a few reasons that say I am.” Peter flashes his eyes and bares his fangs.

Peter _could_ break out of any human prison, easily. Stiles leans in and hisses, “That evaluation thing? Not going so hot for you right now.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You know, I was going to share these with you, but now I don’t think I will.”

Stiles gives up and stomps back to the car, ignoring the amusement on Bowen, Naomi and Paul’s faces. “Should’ve let you go running off when I had the chance,” he mutters.

“I heard that,” Peter calls.

“You were meant to.”

“Can I have some of those?” Naomi asks.

“Sure,” Peter answers.

Stiles walks over to the next body blocking their route and starts dragging it. It’s way easier than it would’ve been in his twenty-year-old body, which has been a pleasant discovery. He keeps pulling them away and letting the exercise diffuse his anger. It also warms him up, and he takes off his jacket and lets his scarf hang loose around his neck. The cold air feels good against his skin as he reaches under bodies and drags, jogs back into the road, then drags again. Knowing these people will be off the road is reassuring. Plus, they haven’t yet seen any collisions, which helps him calm down.

Peter eventually joins him at the head of one body, the corn nuts stuffed in one pocket of his jacket. “Being angry at me won’t help them any quicker,” he says quietly.

Stiles scowls. “Trapped in a spell for who the fuck knows how long, and I can’t figure out _why_.”

“You will.”

“These people haven’t been out for long, judging by the snowfall on them. Imagine towns closer to whoever did this, people who’ve been affected for longer. Imagine how much snow they’re lying under.” Peter wraps one arm around him and holds him close. Stiles leans his head against Peter’s neck. “It could’ve been you.”

“It wasn’t. We’re going to be fine,” Peter says.

“We don’t know that.”

“We do, actually.” Peter kisses his hair. “You’re here, after all.” Fucking time travel. Stiles isn’t sure how much he can trust that paradox bullshit right now, but he can trust himself to research and collect evidence. They’re under a spell. Paul felt his magic drain. More dead animals.

Stiles pulls out of Peter’s hug. He crouches down over the body and touches her cheek, then senses with his magic. Nothing bad happens. He can sense the low ebb in her overall energy, how her heart is slowly beating and her lungs are slowly breathing, but there isn’t a—

His magic is grabbed and sucked away. Stiles instinctively lets it go and stops the flow. He notices, however, that some of _her_ energy went with his, grabbed by the outside force.

He stands up, his skin prickling in the cold now that he’s no longer moving. “Paul tried to use his magic to check on a person earlier, and I did it just now. We both felt the same thing: our magic was sucked away.”

Peter frowns. “What does that mean?”

Stiles looks around. “This spell . . . It requires so much magic. So much _energy_. I thought it was just coming from the ley lines, but what if it isn’t?”

Peter watches him steadily.

Stiles notices a nearby cat. Flattened, like all the rest. He thinks of his little experiment with the snow and his stomach twists. “I think these people are helping source the magic,” he says slowly.

“If that’s true, that’s sick,” Paul says. Stiles and Peter turn to look at him. He's furious now, his brown eyes hard and his hands clenched. "It's dark magic. That's fucking _twisted._"

Behind Paul, Bowen looks pale. “I hope you’re wrong. If you’re right, we’re going to take down the fucker who’s doing this.” She eyes Stiles. “I don’t expect any pretty speeches about the law when we do it either.”

The worst thing is, Stiles can’t blame her. He wants to stop whoever’s doing this too.

He’s starting to shiver now, and the exposed metal of the chain around his neck is burning against his skin in the cold. He pulls his jacket on and finds Peter standing very close to him. Peter adjusts his scarf so that none of his neck is exposed, then leans in and kisses him. It’s a soft, quick brush of lips, a tiny flicker of warmth, but it helps settle something in Stiles. He gets a moment to wonder at that, then Peter says very quietly, “We’ll stop this.”

Stiles nods. “And find Lydia.”

“She won’t be like these people.”

“We don’t know that.”

Peter shakes his head. “We do. It’s how our pack is. We’re in the middle of it, always.”

Stiles can’t really argue with that, but he wishes he could. Peter’s expression and voice are resigned and knowing, and Stiles wonders how many dangers the two of them have lived through by now. Maybe there’s a pattern to how their pack interacts with these incidents, some kind of repetitive play of events that makes them easy to predict and deal with.

Maybe Stiles needs another break and a nap.

By the time they’ve worked through the town to the other side, where the road is significantly clearer and they can navigate around any obstacles, it’s dusk. They decide to continue to the hotel lodge thing Paul spotted on the map, and return to their vehicles.

Stiles gets into the car and realises he’s starving. Peter gets the heater going and starts driving after the Jeep. Stiles reaches for some of the snacks they bought, then decides, _fuck it_, and pulls the corn nuts out of Peter’s pocket.

“Hey,” Peter says.

Stiles opens them and eats one. It’s savoury and spicy, the cheese coming through as a soothing counterpoint to the jalapeno, and not too salty. Seriously good. "Oh my god,” he says and stuffs a handful in his mouth.

Peter just smirks.


	19. Chapter 19

The forest seems to press in around them as they drive. Stiles tries to keep going through the labyrinth book but is too distracted by the town they cleared to focus. Every now and then, they pass a car parked by the side of the road or in the middle of the road, but they don’t stop.

“Book’s not so interesting now?” Peter says at one point.

“I can’t stop thinking about those people,” Stiles replies. He takes out his phone and types messages to Scott and Deaton relaying what they saw in the town.

“I think if you brought the book, you might as well keep going.” Peter says it casually, but the wording is careful. Stiles doesn’t like that Bowen and maybe Naomi—who’s scouting ahead of them on her bike—can hear their conversation. He’s used to friends being able to hear everything, not people they barely know.

“You’re right,” Stiles says.

Several messages from Deaton come in:

_I tried finding examples of magic used on the scale you’re describing and I can’t find anything. The state of the people you found is worrying—I agree with you that the area spell is being maintained by them and the ley lines. _

_People regenerate energy constantly, so depending on how the spell is syphoning them, it could use them indefinitely. This explains the animals, the spell was too much for them._

_To me this increasingly points at a Darach. You will need magic to engage with them. Preserve your own magic as much as possible._

Stiles wants to relay that to Peter but he finds himself pausing. The atmosphere in the car is strange now that people can hear them.

Scott messages next: _I asked around about Bowen. Not much to say. My personal impression is a good one, we’ve never had trouble with her or her pack, but we’re on the literal other side of the country so yeah._

_Other alphas say she’s friendly but not a pushover. Good leader. Fair and a boon to the east coast. Braeden did some work for her a while back and says she’s no better or worse than any other alpha. Dunno what that means you know??!?!_

Stiles rolls his eyes fondly.

“What?” Peter asks.

“Just Scott being Scott.”

Peter rolls his eyes then, but it’s not fondly.

Stiles writes back _thanks buddy_ then puts down his phone. “I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

Peter makes a noise of agreement.

“You got any corn nuts left?” Stiles hadn’t finished the bag.

“Reach into my pocket and find out.” Peter arches his eyebrow at Stiles and damn if even that doesn’t do something to him.

Stiles pokes Peter’s shoulder. “Ha. Ha. Ha. No. You’re driving.”

“I’m a werewolf. I can do multiple things at once.”

Stiles can’t believe he’s arguing about car sex right now. “I think everyone _in hearing range_ would like it if you just drove.”

Peter pouts. “You’re no fun. Fine, just read your book then.”

Stiles takes it as the subtle order it is and turns on the reading light.

He starts to skim again, deciding solution theory isn’t going to be much help with a magical maze, and reaches the next highlighted section at the end of the chapter on routes.

_As stated in the previous chapter (see: Purpose, p.158), as for physical labyrinths and mazes, magical mazes are created to fulfil an infinite range of purposes. However, routes vary dramatically given the medium involved and are always connected to the purpose. Examples of magical mazes are largely mythological or anecdotal, as magic dissolves and leaves no trace; therefore discussion of magical maze routes will be more theoretical than the preceding chapter. _

_Routes may require mental or physical navigation; often both will be required. Depending on the construction of the maze, a traveller may have to do any number of actions, mental or physical, in order to . . ._

The section dives into one of the driest pieces of text Stiles has ever had the misfortune of reading. He pushes through, and five pages later, decides he could summarise it as: figure out the nature of the magic, figure out the purpose of the maze, then navigate through it with the purpose in mind. There’s always a mental component, sometimes a physical one. Given they’ve been driving down this road unstopped and unharassed, he’s starting to doubt this is relevant. He keeps going though, because Old Stiles knows best.

Eventually Naomi peels off down a side road to the right. Bowen and Peter follow, and they drive along a slowly curving road up to what is clearly a high-end lodge complex. The main building is huge and modern, but there’s a blend of log-cabin chic running through it and the wings of the buildings that extend into the forest. Stiles can see it all clearly because the entire complex is lit up, all lights on and bright. Stiles has a brief moment of hope that there are people awake inside, but that’s quickly doused when he sees people lying on the front steps.

Everyone parks, grabs their stuff, and heads inside. The lobby is spacious, with a large fireplace next to the reception desk, sofas and chairs next to wide windows overlooking the front drive, exposed beams in dark polished wood, and ornate tapestries and carpets brightening the floor and walls. There’s a large pile of cold ashes in the fireplace, unconscious people sit slumped in the chairs, and Stiles discovers three staff members lying behind the reception desk.

“I guess we can make ourselves at home,” he says.

Bowen and Naomi share a glance, then Naomi says, “I’m going to check the floors above us.”

Peter nods. “I’ll join you.” He turns to Stiles and winds an arm around him, then rubs his cheek against his hair. “Meet at the bar in a few.” He and Naomi head for the stairs, leaving Stiles, Bowen and Paul in the lobby.

Bowen points at the sign for the dining room. “Let’s see what food options they have.”

In the dining room there are several dozen guests reclining in chairs and over tables—some are even in their food. A buffet table heaves with disintegrating, green-covered food. Stale toast crunches into crumbs under their feet. Mould is ripe in the air and Stiles gags as they powerwalk through.

“Caught at breakfast,” Paul manages, his shirt pulled over his mouth and nose.

“I’m never going to eat eggs again,” Stiles says.

“Eh,” Bowen says as they follow her into the kitchen.

The kitchen is even worse. The chefs were mid-clean-up, meaning plenty of decayed food left out and people lying on the floor. One fridge is open, its contents lost to time and bacteria. Stiles has to turn around and leave, the corn nuts threatening a return. Paul doesn’t quite make it and Stiles hears him retching in the kitchen.

“Come on,” Bowen says, “it’s not _that bad_.”

“It really is, Alpha,” Paul gasps.

Stiles mentally braces himself and sticks his head through the door. “You’re a werewolf, how are you not dying?!”

Bowen is opening the sole window at the side of the kitchen. “Smells are just interesting to us, they’re not necessarily bad or good.”

Paul is grey. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

She waves her hand dismissively and steps over one of the chefs. “We’ll rustle something up. Kitchens always have stocked fridges and freezers.”

Stiles and Paul share a horrified look. There are other closed fridge and freezer units, but after this, Stiles is certain neither of them want to eat anything from this place ever. “How about we see what else is on this floor?” he suggests.

Paul almost bowls him over in his rush to get out of the kitchen. They leave the dining room too, finding themselves in a service corridor that runs between staff areas and the kitchen. They find linen cupboards, toilets, a room full of fancy-looking plates, glassware, and cutlery, and multiple offices. They loop past a conservatory room—the glass walls and ceiling are frosted over—and return to the lobby via a long corridor filled with lodge-themed merchandise.

Past the lobby in the other wing is a spa complex, complete with gym, sauna, steam room, massage rooms and pool. Paul sighs at the sight of it. “We should take advantage of this fancy-ass rich-people shit, like _look at this_, there’s no way I’ll be able to afford to come back here. Man I could take a swim for real.”

Stiles leaves him exploring the gym, and discovers that the bar connects the complex to the dining room. It’s large and relatively modern, but filled with comfy-looking sofas and chairs and features another ash-filled fireplace. It’s thankfully empty and the worst smell is from old lemon and lime slices near the bottles behind the counter. Stiles is eyeing up the spirits available when Paul whistles from one door. “Yes! This is where it’s at! Good find, oh hey do they have Oban?”

Stiles blinks at him—o-what?—then shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Even if they don’t, I vote staying in here tonight, someone needs to guard all this liquor.” Paul goes behind the bar and starts checking the bottle labels. “Aw _yes_ they do have Oban!” He holds up a bottle of scotch and starts pouring a glass. “What’s your poison?”

Stiles’ alcohol experience is limited to beer, shots, and dubious punch mixes at parties. He once managed to order a long island iced tea but doesn’t remember much of what happened after he drank it. People at college put a lot of prestige on having a favourite drink, but Stiles has no idea what his is. All alcohol is good alcohol as far as he’s concerned. Still, drinking in the middle of a mysterious spell surrounded by people who were magically trapped into being human batteries and with people he’d known for less than forty-eight hours doesn’t seem like the best of ideas, but then again, nothing that’s happened since Lydia and he decided to cast that spell has been a truly good idea.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” he says.

Paul grins. “Good man.” He pours two fingers into a glass each and hands one to Stiles.

Stiles takes a sip then chokes, the smoky brine of the whisky hitting the back of his throat like a spray of acid. “Jesus!”

Paul is swirling it in his glass and breathing in the smell. “So good, right?”

Stiles eyes the glass suspiciously. “Yeah?”

“I think after today we _need_ this, man, you know? Like today was fucking fucked up.” Paul sips and sighs happily, his eyes falling closed. “I thought I knew what we were heading into but I totally did _not_. Like who the hell knew all those people would be there just lying like that, like they dropped whatever they were doing and just conked out, so not cool. I’m gonna be traumatised for months after this, no joke. Whoever this Darach asshole is, they’re going to pay, like so much, I’m totally betting Naomi and Bowen will duke it out over who’s going to take the dick down.”

“Won’t they know we’re coming?” Stiles says. “They have to know, right?”

Paul opens his eyes and frowns. “Huh. Probably, now that you say that, I mean, if I did this kind of set up—not that I would or could because holy crap the kind of power involved you know—but if I went batshit insane and decided I had to or whatever, I’d definitely want to know if people got past all my little tricks.”

Stiles takes a seat at the bar and watches the light play through the whisky in his glass. “Me too. I’d want to know.” And if he wanted to know, what would he then do? He tries to think it through logically. He wants people either diverted out or pinned down for their energy. Someone does a counterspell and avoids both of those things, so now there’s someone walking around in his spell, unaffected, and ready to take him down. Stiles would add a back-up measure, something to ultimately suck them of energy and prevent them from coming too close.

His thoughts head into dark places and he sips the whisky again. It goes down better this time, but it’s incredibly sour and smoky. Stiles has no idea why Paul likes it so much.

“Oh good, you discovered the bar.” They turn to see Bowen poking her head into the room. “I found some promising food in the kitchen. We’ll feast tonight. I’m going to see if there are showers on this level because I think we all need one.” She moves away.

Stiles turns back to Paul, who’s examining an array of small bottles near the decaying lemon slices. “What’s it like being her emissary?”

Paul smiles. “Good! She’s a great alpha to work for, I mean so far, it hasn’t actually been all _that_ long all things considered but she and I are solid you know, tight.”

Stiles takes another sip, this one a lot smoother than the previous two. “And Naomi?”

Paul’s smile dims slightly. “She’s cool, kinda intense but cool. You know left hands, right, they can be kind of scary sometimes but she’s great to party with like seriously she’ll show up with the best stuff and help everyone get wasted, and if you get some wolfbeer in her this wicked sense of humour just comes out like no one’s business. Surreal.”

Reminds Stiles of Peter, actually, with a lot less angst and one-liners.

"What's it like being with him?" Paul asks.

"Peter?"

"Yeah." Paul gives him a slightly shy smile. "He's _Peter Hale_. Even I've heard of him and I'm new to the whole werewolf pack network thing."

Stiles wonders what Old Stiles would say to this, then remembers that Peter might be able to hear them discussing him. He grins. "He's just Peter. He snores and puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us."

Paul freezes. "Wait, one leg at a what?"

They chat more until Stiles’ glass is empty and he’s feeling a lot better about, well, everything. Paul tops them both up and they somehow end up talking about movies. Stiles quickly realises he’s missing twelve years of culture and tries to keep them on the ‘classic’ Marvel output. It works until they’re in the middle of an Ironman vs Captain America argument and the wolves come back into the room looking amused.

“I think I smell two drunk mages in here,” Naomi singsongs.

Stiles watches them approach the bar, his eyes catching on Peter. He looks at ease, coat off and sweater sleeves rolled up slightly. _Handsome_, his brain supplies. _Hot_. He sips his whisky as Peter comes right up to him and tilts his head.

“Scotch? Really?” Peter asks.

Stiles holds up his glass. “It has been a very long day.”

“_So_ long,” Paul agrees.

“And we all deserve drinks.”

Peter’s eyes crinkle. “No arguments here.” He takes Stiles’ glass and drinks from it, watching Stiles the entire time. Stiles sees his throat work and the way his tongue runs across his lips to catch all the flavour, and wants to run _his_ tongue over Peter’s everything. Goddammit. He even makes drinking look sexy. It’s so fucking unfair.

“Mm,” Peter says. “Delicious. I don't snore.”

“_So_ unfair,” Stiles whispers.

“Having a good time, honey?” Peter asks, taking another sip.

Stiles can’t seem to look away from Peter’s mouth. “Yeah. Could be having a better time though.”

Peter puts the glass on the counter behind Stiles. “Is that so. Do you need my help with that?”

Stiles grabs Peter’s shoulders. “I think I do.”

“Specifically mine?”

“Especially yours.”

“Get a room already,” Naomi mutters.

“Way ahead of you,” Peter says, pulling Stiles from his stool.

“Haven’t you two been married for, like, a decade?” Bowen asks.

Stiles chokes back a laugh as Peter pulls him towards the door. “It sometimes feels like it,” Peter says over his shoulder to her. “But sometimes—” the grin is evident in the way his voice curls “—it really doesn’t.”


	20. Chapter 20

Outside in the hallway between the dining room and the bar, Stiles latches onto Peter’s face. They kiss deeply and it’s somehow better than it was in the morning. Peter’s mouth has a smoky, malty taste to it and Stiles wants to chase the flavour with his tongue.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” Peter murmurs to him.

Stiles is torn. He feels loose and warm and happy to kiss the hell out of Peter—and maybe do more. The idea makes all sorts of feelings swirl in his stomach. But they’re in a hotel surrounded by magically-trapped people and in hearing range of two werewolves. It’s not how Stiles would want a sexual experience with anyone, let alone the first time with someone new.

Someone new who’s his _husband_.

And Peter fucking Hale.

The whisky must affect him more than he realises because he starts giggling.

Peter shakes his head. He strokes his hands down Stiles’ back and thighs, and suddenly Stiles is lifted into the air and over Peter’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Stiles reaches down and taps at Peter’s ass. “Put me down.”

“All in good time.” Peter starts walking. “I want to get you there quickly.”

Stiles decides _fuck it_ and hangs there, debating the merits of sleeping with Peter right now. Apart from the whole hotel-magic-potential-death thing, plus potential eavesdroppers, there are remarkably few cons and so many pros. Of course, everything hinges on being out of Bowen and Naomi’s hearing. He can’t imagine what they’d think if Stiles starts blabbing about first times with Peter. He doesn’t want anyone hearing them do anything together.

Peter takes him to a huge swanky room on the top floor and puts him down in the bathroom. Stiles looks around in shock and delight—the bathroom is the size of his room and his dad’s room together. It has a Jacuzzi and waterfall shower and clawfoot tub and three separate sinks _and_ two separate toilets _and_ a bidet. It’s the most accessorised bathroom he’s ever seen. There’s hidden track lighting around the bathtubs and shower and mirrors. The wall tiles are so shiny he can _see himself_.

Peter turns on the shower then presses him up against the wall.

Stiles is honestly so turned on, but he still says, “So is this actually happening right now?”

Peter grins. “Oh, I _wish_ that’s what I brought you here for.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “My contact finally came through with information about Bowen’s pack and potential contenders for our Darach.”

Oh. Well, that’s good. Stiles tries to calm his dick down and get his brain on board as Peter pulls out his phone and shows the screen to Stiles. “I requested dossiers on everyone in Bowen’s pack and the other packs in and surrounding Maine, plus any gossip or hearsay. My contact’s narrowed down the information that seems most pertinent for us.”

Stiles squints at the phone screen. It’s hard to hear Peter clearly over the noise of the shower— of course, that’s the point. “Scott said Bowen has a good reputation within the alpha circles.” He lightly scrolls the screen and sees more text pop up plus photos. “When did you have time to read this?”

“I skimmed as I checked the hotel floors.” Peter shudders. “Ugh. Full of magicked people. Effectively dead yet not dead. _So_ creepy.” He turns the screen back to himself. “Scott is right that Bowen has a good reputation and good interpack relationships. She’s had disappointingly few disagreements with other east coast and Canadian alphas, and all of them were resolved amicably. For an east coast alpha, she’s pissed off surprisingly few people.”

Stiles frowns. “Okay?”

“I’m not sure whether to believe it or not. Naomi must be good at hiding bodies if it’s wrong.” Peter thumbs at the screen. “We couldn’t find people with clear motivations—so I asked for missing people who could use magic, and here’s what turned up.

“First, Robert Anderson.” He shows Stiles a picture of a middle-aged man with a heavy-set, slightly sad expression, as though the world hangs on his shoulders. “Bowen’s previous emissary. He retired a year ago, left willingly, after over two decades of service. They were an item for some of that time, but stopped several years ago when she met her mate.”

Stiles blinks in confusion. “She has a _mate_?”

“Focus, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” He looks at the screen, it’s easier to stay on track with that in sight rather than Peter’s very close, very visible collarbone by his sweater collar. “So—leaving might have been amicable, but maybe he’s changed his mind?”

Peter shrugs. “Who knows. Doing something like this—” he gestures at the air “—is very much outside of his character. By all accounts he’s a considerate and upstanding citizen. Donates to charity, volunteers at his local nursing home, likes gardening, grows his own pot and distributes to people with medical conditions at cost, buys Girl Scout cookies and bakes for the local fire station fundraiser every year. Hard to pin down at times, but, seriously, _no one_ has anything bad to say about him.” Peter almost sounds disgusted. “He disappeared several months ago, supposedly on a cruise for fifty-something singles headed to Tortuga, but he never boarded the boat.”

Stiles sighs as Peter taps at his phone. The way Peter’s hair is hanging down slightly and all this concentration is a good, nay, _excellent_ look on him.

“Second candidate: Jo Pietberger.” He shows Stiles a photograph of a young woman laughing. “Bowen’s niece and a spark. She disappeared a couple of months ago too. She attends college in Pennsylvania and is an average student. Majors in biology, plays basketball and softball for the college teams. Her aunt and mother disapproved, as she’s a werewolf and risks exposing them if she plays sports—much like Scott did with lacrosse. Apparently there was a huge argument between Jo and her pack, and she stormed out. Hasn’t been heard from since and no one can find her. My source tracked her to a friend’s place in Portland, Maine, but is still figuring out where she went next. If Bowen wasn’t busy with this magic area stuff, she’d be looking for her niece right now.”

Peter scrolls down. “Third and final: Evan Langley. Wannabe druid, but, frankly, lacks the talent and magic to do the job.” The picture shows a man in his forties with a receding hairline and a sallow bored expression, his skin so pale that if vampires did exist and could be photographed, he’d be a contender. “His day job is running a dental clinic in Bangor. Not the most popular of people, apparently rude, aloof, self-centred, and misogynistic. All of his neighbours had nothing but bad things to say about him, male and female. One memorable quote is—” Peter grins “—‘If I saw someone from this building run him down, I’d help them bury the body and shuffle the car.’ Applied for the position of Bowen’s emissary when Anderson stepped down, but didn’t make it to interview.”

Stiles snorts.

“He supposedly has family in Albania and went to visit them a few months ago, but like Anderson, never left the country. Not sure he even left the state.”

“These would all be super petty motivations for revenge,” Stiles points out.

Peter sighs. “Yes. We’re missing something. I still think these three are our best bets. They’re all magic-users, even to a limited degree, and they disappeared around the time Bowen noticed the problems in the forest.”

Stiles isn’t convinced by any of them. A middle-aged retired dude? A college girl having a fight? Some random asshole with delusions of grandeur?

Peter’s expression is tense and Stiles realises that Peter feels the same way. He must be frustrated that these are their best options for who’s responsible. “You and your source did good,” he says. He pats Peter’s shoulder for extra effect.

“It’s not good enough. Which of these three would hijack a nemeton and warp ley lines? And why?” Peter’s hand tightens on Stiles’ hip. Stiles doesn’t remember when Peter put it there. “We need more information.”

“We’ll get it. Maybe our new friends can be persuaded to share stories.” Stiles gazes up at him. “Look. We’re close. There’s more driving needed to get to the convergence point. We still have time. Plus, you know . . .” He lowers his voice, though with the shower it’s unnecessary. “The paradox. We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again.”

Peter gazes at him, searching and steady, but there’s an air of frustration and uncertainty that Stiles doesn’t usually associate with Peter. “Mm.” He holds up his phone and points. “Did you see this?”

Stiles leans in slightly to look closer, then Peter’s kissing him, one hand back on his hip and fingers slipping under the edge of Stiles’ sweater.

Stiles pulls away. “Sneaky.” He wraps one arm around Peter’s shoulders and reels him in tight. The kisses go deep and heavy and, combined with the white noise of the shower, Stiles almost sinks into the heady sensation of their lips together. Peter has slight stubble that adds a hint of prickle as their mouths move and his tongue is just wicked. Stiles lets himself chase that smoky flavour now. Whisky never tasted so good.

When they pull apart for a breath, Stiles gasps, “Are you sure you didn’t bring me up here for more than debriefing? Because I could be on board for that.”

Peter grins. “I did hedge my bets. After all we can’t let these facilities go to waste.” Peter drops kisses down Stiles’ neck as his hand slides up under his shirt. “And you, husband dearest, light of my life, and rose of my soul, need a shower. You positively reek of sweat.”

“Oh my fucking god, so do you,” Stiles gasps. It’s not even a complaint. This feels incredible, _Peter_ feels incredible under his hands and on his skin. That mouth should be outlawed. And Peter does smell of sweat and it’s _amazing_. Stiles didn’t realise Peter smelled so good.

“I may regret saying this, but it’s leading into fast roll territory,” Peter murmurs against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles’ brain stutters. “So?”

“_So_, if I suggest handjobs in the shower, are you going to flip out at me?”

_Handjobs in_—images flood his mind and Stiles is 1000% on board. He presses one hand against Peter’s chest and thrills at the firm muscle underneath. “Nope. Let the roll fly.”

“Good. You don’t smell enough like me.” Peter nips at Stiles’ neck then licks it.

“Oh god.” Stiles threads his hands through Peter’s hair and keeps him there. A second warm hand worms under his skirt and presses itself against Stiles’ chest. He’s hard and wants friction, wants heat, wants everything.

Peter leans back and pulls Stiles’ sweater off, then his shirt. The ring on the chain around Stiles’ neck bounces and Peter presses one finger to it, the expression on his face softening. Stiles feels the metal against his collarbone and it’s like a quick douse of cold water. There’s a whole relationship between them that Stiles doesn’t know or appreciate. Even just looking at Peter now, the way his mouth smooths into a generous smile and the way his face lights up as he looks at Stiles, it feels like Stiles is intruding. That look isn’t for him, the Stiles he is now, it’s for the Stiles with twelve years of love between them.

Like, actual hardcore love, in a way Stiles hasn’t had or given. He’d still say he’d been in love with Lydia, but this feeling he’s getting from Peter is something different, something else. It’s something he’s pretty sure he’s not feeling right now for Peter and that’s not right. But seeing Peter like this in front of him, how open and full of emotion he is, that makes him want to feel it. To return it.

Peter leans in. “Whatever you’re thinking, Stiles, stop it.” He goes to kiss him, but Stiles dodges it.

“Are you sure about this?” Stiles looks at him. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure about this and I still want to climb you. I’m not . . . I’m not _him_,” he whispers.

Peter answers this by pulling off his sweater and shirt, then undoing the buttons on his jeans. “Stiles, for the millionth time, you _are_ him. If this is just sex or fun or whatever for you right now, fine. I don’t care. I want to connect with the person I love. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, so right now, I want to be with you while I still can.”

Now _that_ is the most romantic thing Stiles has ever heard Peter say.

Well. It’s also the most romantic thing anyone’s said to him. He’s not used to being the subject of that kind of affection. It’s uncomfortable—but somehow one of the best feelings in the world.

“It’s not just sex,” Stiles says.

Peter steps out of his jeans, then reaches for Stiles’. “Oh?” It’s studied, too casual.

Stiles grabs Peter’s hands and stills them. “I’m not him. I don’t have his memories and feelings for you. But I give a shit about this and about you, so it’s not just sex. Okay?”

That gets him a smile so fond and knowing that Stiles’ heart turns over. They take off the rest of their clothes quickly, helping each other and dropping kiss and touches at will. Stiles has a moment where he sees Peter’s dick for the first time and has to stop himself from fist-pumping with victory. They move into the shower, where Stiles gets up close and personal with Peter’s shoulders and chest while Peter soaps up his hands and languidly washes him. Stiles tries not to squirm under the attention, but when Peter spins him around and starts swiping down his front, it takes all his concentration just to keep standing. He can feel Peter’s cock press hard against his ass, but Peter doesn’t seem to notice. He takes one of Stiles’ arms and drapes it around his shoulders, then sucks at Stiles’ neck while his hand wraps around Stiles’ dick.

All Stiles can do is ride the sensations of Peter’s mouth, his hand stroking his dick, the hard heat of Peter behind him, and the steamy warmth around them. He’s groaning—too loud, too much, too quickly, but Peter just growls out, “That’s it,” and licks his skin. His hips thrust forward, wanting more from Peter’s hand. He’s so close.

Peter bites down on Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles comes with a shout, holding on as his knees buckle under him. He blinks, water dripping off his hair and eyelashes, seeing stars and rainbows. Strong arms hold him tight around his waist, and there’s a sizable dick still being ground against his ass—and Stiles needs to get all friendly with it like yesterday. He turns in Peter’s arms and takes him in hand, long and hard. Peter kisses him, almost bites him with the ferocity of it, then sucks in a harsh breath as Stiles starts stroking him.

Stiles watches him. He can hardly believe he gets to see this side of Peter—lidded eyes, panting and gasping, hips bucking against his, and miles upon miles of gorgeous skin. He’s beautiful. God, he’s perfect. Somehow Peter Hale is perfect and Stiles never knew until right now. And he’s somehow _his_.

Peter comes with a low moan and a flash of blue eyes. He pushes Stiles against the shower wall and scents him, nuzzling in close and rubbing his hands on every part of Stiles’ body he can get touch. Stiles runs his fingers across Peter’s hair, his neck, down his shoulder blades and to the grooves over his hips.

“Better?” Stiles asks.

Peter mumbles something unintelligible, and Stiles pulls him in closer.

**Facts; a complete list by Stiles Stilinski, continued**

11\. Stiles is again fucked.

12\. This time by unexpected feelings for Peter Hale.

13\. Most surprisingly, this revelation is not upsetting.

14\. Unsurprisingly, he's got no idea what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas/happy holidays


	21. Chapter 21

Back downstairs, Bowen and her packmates have gathered bedsheets, pillows, duvets and quilts and made a pile of bedding on the floor of the bar. When Stiles and Peter return, Naomi is drinking at the bar with Paul, and Bowen is cradling a glass of wine. She points at a pile on one sofa. “We weren’t sure if you wanted to sleep down here with us, but there’s extra if you want to.”

Stiles is about to refuse, because they’re literally in a fancy hotel and why wouldn't they, when Peter jumps in with, “Good idea. Thank you.”

“I’m going to prepare us some food.” Bowen smiles at them. “If either of you cook, feel free to join me.”

Peter squeezes Stiles’ arm. “I believe I will.” He follows Bowen out.

Meaning Stiles is left to make up a bed for them. He’s not sure he likes the idea of a group sleepover here in the bar, but Peter probably has a reason for the choice. Keeping close to Bowen’s pack? Easy way to the exit?

Actually, that alone isn’t a bad reason to stay down here. He gets to work laying out the bedding, redistributing the sofa cushions on the floor so that he and Peter have something to cushion them while they sleep.

The group eat dinner—duck breast with spinach, creamed potatoes, and pickled fennel, chased by the biggest tub of chocolate mousse Stiles has ever seen—then sample more of the bar. Stiles sticks to one more glass of whisky, because he wants to be clear-headed for tomorrow, and eventually moves to the bedding he laid out. He starts to go through his labyrinth book again, frowning against the noise of the group’s conversation. He’s going through the chapter on aesthetic when Paul flops next to him and slurs, “Watcha readin’?”

“Book on mazes.”

Paul squints at him. “Interestin’ choice. You’re kinda weird you know that? Alpha mentioned you mentioned somethin’ ’bout mazes while we were driving an’ I was like no way that makes like zero sense in our situation an’ so I was wonderin’ what that was about—you wanna lay it on me?”

Even if he wanted to, Stiles can’t. The only reason this book is even here because Old Stiles said he needed it, and Stiles is really hoping he’s wrong about that. He has no idea how this could be useful. Still, if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s pulling truthful bullshit out his ass. “I’ve been doing some study into it recently and had the book on me. I mean, it’s just a theory. With the amount of energy that’s hanging around, think of the spells you could do. No magical mazes have ever been accurately recorded because of the sheer amount of magic or careful construction needed, so this is an incredible opportunity. I just thought _what if_.”

Paul nods slowly. “I think I get it, yeah, yeah. You’d try that with this kind of power?”

_That’s_ an interesting question. Just how drunk is he? The werewolves are still talking but with all that _multitasking_ stuff from earlier, Stiles has zero doubt they’re listening in. “No one’s ever been recorded doing any kind of mass effect spell for more than a few minutes; if I could summon this kind of power without hurting people, I’d definitely want to try this. Make my mark on the world. I’d do a bunch of other things too, like maybe make my own magical theme park for a day.”

Paul is nodding heavily now. “Man, _yeah_, I hear you, like if it wasn’t dark magic, it would be so cool to conjure up like a gigantic permanent portal and bounce from here to Australia or China or Fiji in two seconds. Or set up a virtual reality game but with _magic_, or send the magic somewhere else that needs a boost of extra life like the rainforest and shit, or . . .” He starts rambling and Stiles glances over at the wolves. They look away from him just before he can catch their expressions.

“It’s fun imagining but really, I wouldn’t do any of that even if I could,” Paul ends eventually. “Dunno if I could physically handle this amount of power, you know?”

Stiles nods.

“You sayin’ you could?”

It’s a weirdly aggressive response. “Nope,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Probably couldn’t handle it psychologically either. You’d need someone pretty strong-minded to handle it without going all crazy with power or literally just going crazy.”

Paul frowns. “Thought you were the strongest spellcaster in North America or one of ’em, like isn’t that what people say about you? Came out of nowhere with all this power and everyone was like whoa.”

That’s news to Stiles. “Uh, that's debatable at best.”

“Huh.”

Stiles waits to see what else Paul comes out with. Paul studies him, then grins. “Can’t be all that powerful if two whiskies sinks ya.”

Stiles scoffs.

Bowen comes over and helps Paul stand up. “I think it’s bed time for you.”

Paul grins widely. “Probably.”

Everyone prepares to sleep. Stiles returns from his bathroom run to find Peter ready for him in their makeshift bed for the night, patting the sheets with a leer. Stiles rolls his eyes and makes himself comfortable next to him.

He glances over at Paul, who’s already passed out, and Bowen who’s digging through her bag for something. Naomi is using the closest bathroom.

“Do people really say I’m super powerful?” he whispers to Peter.

Peter puts his mouth by Stiles’ ear. “Yes. You started off a spark and your powers grew over time. People don’t tend to mess with you.” His voice and breath send a shiver through Stiles. “Strongest in North America? Doubt it.”

Stiles lightly punches Peter’s arm. “Thanks for the support, _honey_.”

Peter responds by fitting his face to Stiles’ neck and wrapping one arm around him. “Mm. This reminds me of our honeymoon.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You don’t say.” Who knows that means. They slept on the floor? They didn’t leave bed? They had a group hangout in a bar and crashed for the night together? Peter’s probably yanking his chain. “I’m sure our honeymoon floor was softer.”

Peter huffs in amusement.

“Surprised you wanted to be down here,” Stiles whispers.

“I like to know what’s going on,” Peter replies softly.

“Sleep well, everyone,” Bowen calls out.

Peter’s pressed alongside the entirety of Stiles’ body and it’s not terrible. If they were alone, Stiles would pin him down and repeat their shower activities, but with company in the room, not even Little Stiles is interested. He replays the images of water running down Peter’s muscles and abs, the way his skin was sleek but the body underneath was firm, and the open, wanting expression on his face. All new. Stiles hadn’t realised he could be like that.

Somehow he sleeps. He dreams of walking through trees, following a breeze that rustles through the trees. Beside him is a wolf, huffing and blue-eyed. He plunges into a pool and when he emerges, he’s in the ocean, bobbing on the surface as waves roll under him with soft rushes. He floats. It’s soothing, the feel of the water passing and the raw power of the ocean around him. He could bob here for days. There’s no land and no wolf.

He wakes with a start and Peter’s still next to him, warm and sleepy in their shared bed on the floor. They’ve separated during the night. Stiles rolls over and lies over one side of Peter, arm over his chest and head on his shoulder, partly to see what he’ll do and partly because it makes Stiles feel better. Safer. Peter’s hand comes up and holds him there. “Sleep,” Peter murmurs. Stiles closes his eyes and relaxes. It must be early and he’s not sure how long he slept. Something hums in the building just for a moment. Some time passes and he hears it again, then after another period of time, again. Bowen’s group breathe softly from a few sofas away.

He drifts off. Water again. No land. Peaceful. Gentle swells. But this time there’s something in the water with him. Dream-him realises it had been there the whole time. He’s glad when he wakes up again.


	22. Chapter 22

The morning is dark and cold outside the hotel. The wolves are visibly stressed, making breakfast and shoving the sheets they used into the nearest housekeeping cart with grim efficiency. Paul has a hangover and lets everyone know about it, loudly.

Peter brushes against Stiles constantly. He cracks jokes with Bowen and makes Paul a hangover cure, but Stiles is pretty sure Peter’s on edge. The magic and uncertainty weighs on everyone. He's not the only one trying to break the tension with words; Bowen keeps trying to make conversation, but her efforts peter out too easily. Stiles makes sure their stuff is packed and in the car. All that's going through his head is the information Peter gave him—plus the memories of what happened after. Nice distraction. Still not quite enough.

Breakfast is freezer waffles, eggs, juice, coffee, and preserves, then they return to the cars and drive to the main road. Paul estimates another five hours of driving then they have to park the cars, turn into the woods and hike until they find the darach. Or, considering Peter’s top three candidates, whoever has it in for Bowen and half of Maine.

Peter drives again and Stiles continues through his mazes book. He doesn’t indulge in reading anything interesting, just skims lightly from pink section to pink section. It becomes frustratingly vague and repetitive, with odd bits of common sense that make Stiles want to no-shit-Sherlock the hell out of the author.

Magic mazes are subject to the laws of magic.  
Magic mazes require incredible amounts of magic.  
Magic mazes can be solved by understanding the intent of the user.  
Magic mazes can be navigated by circumventing any obstacles or countering them with more magic.  
Non-magic users can use traditional means to counter effects of the magic maze.  
Magic mazes may interact with physical elements.  
Magic mazes can take any form.

When he finishes it, Stiles dumps it in his lap and groans in annoyance. “I cannot believe that he—_I_ gave myself this book to read.”

Peter grins at the near-slip. “Good reading?”

“Frustrating as hell. Probably a crock of crap.” Stiles looks out the window. They’ve been driving about two hours now, and the scenery is as repetitive as the book. Jeep ahead of them, the road, snow-lined trees on either side of the road, occasional appearances of Naomi on her bike. They drive around a car stopped in the middle of the road for the second time since driving, and Peter makes a noise.

“What?” Stiles asks.

Peter grimaces. “Nothing. I think.” He glances at Stiles, obviously not willing to share. Stiles turns and looks at the car. Silver Renault, family wagon. Nothing too unusual.

They stop an hour later to stretch their legs and eat some snacks. Paul feels better and shares some funny videos on his tablet with Stiles. The wolves prowl around, twitchy as hell.

When Paul goes for a toilet break in the forest, Stiles’ phone buzzes with a text from Peter: _I hate maine I hate this road I hate not being able to talk to you freely...it feels like we’re going nowhere_.

Stiles types back, _u mean u don’t like spending all this time in an enclosed space w me + snacks?_

Peter: _I mean that *it feels like we’re going nowhere*_

Peter: _Also car sex would be so helpful right now but we can’t even have that._

Stiles rolls his eyes and looks over at Peter. He’s pacing, phone in hand and clearly annoyed. On the other side of the road, Bowen is doing the same thing, not looking any happier. Naomi is building a small snowman on the side of the road. She finds twigs and stones for it, and by the time she’s done, everyone’s ready to get going again.

Now Peter’s mentioned it, Stiles has _images_ in his head and they’re as persistent as the real ones from the hotel shower. Hopefully he’s not broadcasting his reaction, but when Peter stalks over to the car, he raises his eyebrows knowingly. “Something on your mind?”

“Maybe.” Stiles isn’t up for it, not really, not in this company and these circumstances. But the _idea_ of Peter pushing him down in the backseat, or him riding Peter anywhere in the car, that’s doing nice things to him. “I liked your suggestion.”

“Oh?”

“For later?”

Peter breaks into a filthy smile. “It’s a promise.”

By the motorcycle, Naomi audibly snorts.

Back in the car, Stiles brings out the primer again and turns to his place.

_Watch the road_.

That’s the only thing on that page. On the next page it says, _remember Lydia_.

What the _hell._

Stiles frowns and looks out the window. Peter’s put pop music on. They don’t speak.

An hour later, they drive around another car in the middle of the road. It’s in the same position and is the same colour as the last car.

“That’s silver Renault number three,” Peter mutters.

Then it hits Stiles: a feeling of going nowhere. There’s a history of redirection with this area effect spell. _Fuck_.

“Do you think we’re . . . ?” Stiles asks.

“I really really hope not,” Peter replies.

An hour later, they reach a tiny snowman on the side of the road. Everyone stops and gets out to look at it. There's a moment of stunned quiet.

Naomi crosses her arms. “I knew it.”

“I had suspicions when we passed the Renault a second time,” Peter says.

Stiles has their location on his phone. They’re nowhere near as far from the lodge as they should be after five hours of driving. “So, guessing you didn’t get GPS in your Jeep,” he says to Bowen.

“Nope. Turned it off because there’s no point when we know where we’re going,” she says. “Why?”

He holds up his phone. “We’ve been driving in circles.”

“I’m almost out of gas,” Naomi says.

“Fucking _how_?” Bowen’s eyes flash red for a moment. “We’re magically protected against diversion and redirection! All of us!”

Stiles looks back at his phone. They’re on the road and have been driving along it, if his phone can be trusted. So far electronics don’t seem to have been affected, so that’s a go.

Nothing’s stopped them from driving. Yet the magic has kept them driving the same stretch over and over again. Somehow.

“It’s not affecting us,” he says slowly. “It’s affecting the road.”

Everyone stares at him, then Paul swears. “Oh fuck _of course_.”

“Explain for the rest of us,” Naomi says.

Stiles gestures to their cars. “We protected ourselves and our cars from magical influence, yes, but what if this new thing isn’t acting on our cars or on us, but on the road?” He points at his phone. “I think we’ve been driving the same stretch for hours and hours. It’s a loop. All the spell is doing is looping one point of the road back to where we started near the lodge. There’s a seamless jump point where we change positions. It’s only acting on the road.”

“Achieves redirection without targeting us directly,” Bowen breathes.

What’s worrying Stiles is that the spell seems to have responded to the counter measures they’ve put in place. He’s pretty sure magic isn’t intuitive like that on its own.

“So how do we get out of this and make actual progress?” Peter asks.

“Drive off the road,” Paul says. “Drive on the side until it’s safe to go back on it.”

Everyone looks at the side of the road. There’s the treeline and periodic high banks of snow. Then they look at Naomi’s motorcycle, Bowen’s Jeep, and Stiles and Peter’s rental which is decidedly designed for on-road traveling.

Peter turns to Stiles. “Any other ideas?”

Like he has a fucking clue? Stiles has learned about the intricacies of magic in the past four and a half _days_. It’s not enough to be an expert. He shrugs. “We hike?”

Bowen sighs loudly. “Everyone into the Jeep. It can handle this.”

Peter and Stiles park the rental at the side of the road, then move their gear into the Jeep. Naomi refuses to leave her cycle and tentatively starts riding between the road and treeline.

Peter and Stiles sit in the backseat of the Jeep while Paul and Bowen take the front. Bowen starts driving carefully beside the road. It’s bumpy, what with the snow and uneven ground. Stiles sees the treeline come way too close for comfort and has to focus on his phone.

He watches the little dot that’s them move along the road on the map. Another two hours and they’re much further along the road. They stop to let Naomi refuel using one of the gas cans Bowen has in the back of her Jeep, then return to the pavement. An hour later, they jump back to where they started and Bowen nearly tears the steering wheel off in anger.

They try again, but this time they time things better. Two hours seems to be the marker. Drive for just under two hours on the road, drive off-road for half an hour, then back on the main road for an hour and fifteen, then off-road for half an hour.

They don’t experience any more setbacks, so Stiles counts it as a success, but they’ve lost the day to this.

The Jeep is very quiet. Apparently no one feels like talking. He keeps checking their progress on his phone. Peter’s deep in something on his phone. Paul hums to himself tunelessly as he works on his tablet.

Stiles pulls out his primer and flips to the back again. _Watch the road_ and _remember Lydia_. When he turns the page over, he finds a couple of blank pages then the back cover. That’s the end of the primer.

That’s _it_? That’s all he gets?

They’re getting closer with every minute and _this_ is all he leaves himself with?

Stiles officially hates his older self. He’s going to do such a better job when he goes back. He’s going to detail a fucking timeline and checklist and staple it to the fucking fuzzy yellow ottoman in the San Francisco flat so that it’s the first thing he sees and there will be zero surprises.

God, _why_.

Peter rubs one hand along Stiles’ thigh, surprising him. The touch is soothing but Peter says nothing.

Stiles flips through the primer again, refreshing his memory of its contents. The spells, the hints, the apologies and the notes; everything clearly laid out and purposeful. He can hardly imagine writing it. How will he possibly remember all this information? How will he _learn_ all of this, then remember what to write down and when? Not that it matters; he's going to write down a timeline and it's going to be so much more helpful than this.

The silence in the Jeep is getting to him on a visceral level.

He clears his throat. “So, who’s up for a game? Anyone?”

The hand on his thigh tightens.

Paul gives him serious side-eye. “You think _now’s_ a good time for I Spy?”

“Why not? You got something better to do?”

“Yeah, tracking our progress and making sure we don’t get put back where we started.” Paul holds up his tablet, map and blinking dot visible. “Plus, you know, research.”

“Into what?”

“Spells.” Paul gives a shiver. “Being out here like this gives me the _heebies_, dude, and I’m not joking, something about this forest is freaking me out, and I want to be prepared like no one’s business.”

“We’re not even in the forest yet,” Bowen says.

“Yeah, how are we going to get through the forest?” Stiles asks.

“That’s when we hike,” Paul says.

Stiles glances outside at the now-approaching dusk. “At night?”

A grim silence fills the Jeep.

Peter relays, “Naomi says hell no to hiking at night.”

“I agree but damn,” Paul sighs, “a night in the Jeep, exactly what I didn’t want.”

Bowen just sets her jaw and keeps driving. She's been shorter and angrier the closer they get to where Paul thinks they need to stop. Stiles can't blame her, but he still moves in a little closer to Peter.

“I spy, with my little eye,” Peter says abruptly, “something beginning with ‘l’.”

“Are you serious right now?” Bowen snaps.

“Oh shit dude, that’s a hard one.” Paul casts about then points at the Jeep shield on the steering wheel. “Logo?”

Peter looks mildly impressed. “Nope.”

“Left-hand wing mirror?”

Now Peter looks disgusted. “Please.”

“Lunatics driving into fuck-knows-what?” Bowen hisses.

“That’s actually better than mine. But no.”

“Lydia?” Stiles asks hopefully.

“Alas, no.”

Bowen frowns. “Naomi says ‘light’.”

Peter claps. “Yes! She wins. A light, on your right, coming out of the forest.”

Stiles moves over and cranes to see, as does Paul and Bowen.

In the near distance, rising softly out of the trees in the forest, is a glow of warm light. There’s a small flicker in it as Stiles watches, but it otherwise doesn’t move. Just a soft glow coming from somewhere in the forest. It becomes more and more distinct as twilight settles over them.

“Seems that’s where we go,” Bowen murmurs.

“Tomorrow,” Paul adds decisively. He makes a worried noise and turns back to his tablet.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go

Peter’s grip is too tight on Stiles’ thigh; he has to shove his wrist to make him let go. If he’s honest, Stiles is also nervous. The primer doesn’t have any more information for him. They’re almost at the turn-off point where they leave the cars and head through the forest. Whoever’s controlling the spell seems to be aware of their movements and counter spells, or has their magic primed to react to intruders. Stiles frowns. Could that be poss—

Paul swears, holding up his tablet. The screen’s gone dark.

Stiles checks his phone—it’s apparently still on, because the screen flickers whenever he connects and disconnects it from his charging pack, but he can’t make the screen react any other way. Beside him, Peter mutters something under his breath, making Bowen chuckle darkly.

“I thought it couldn’t affect electronics,” Stiles says.

“You don’t know shit,” Paul snaps. “None of us do.”

“That’s enough.” Bowen steers to the side of the road. “The Jeep still works, so everything’s fine. We’re driving until we’re close enough, then we’re stopping and getting cosy in here for the night.” She eyes Paul. “Any disagreements, forget them.”

Stiles has plenty of disagreements. He had Lydia’s phone coordinates on his phone; without those, he can’t track his progress through the forest tomorrow. He leans past Peter and looks out at the forest. There’s no guarantee she’s where that glow is, but as it’s clearly not anything natural, it’s as good a beacon as any. Walking towards it is their best way of staying on track, but they’ll only be able to do that at night. Seeing it during the day would be impossible. He’s with Paul and Naomi on the idea of hiking at night though; the prospect is terrifying. He’s been in enough forests at night already, thanks very much.

Well, even if hiking to the mysterious glowy thing _was_ their only option, there’s no guarantee he’d be able to see it from within the forest.

Twenty minutes later, the Jeep’s headlights show a car parked on the side of the road. Naomi and her motorcycle are next to it, waiting for them. Bowen parks behind it and everyone piles out of the Jeep. Bowen and Naomi meet and talk quietly, while Paul shifts his weight anxiously, muttering about the darkness and the trees.

Stiles and Peter check the car. There aren’t any obvious indicators about ownership, but Peter takes one inhale and declares it Lydia’s. “Her scent’s all over it. Days old, but she definitely used this car and left it here.”

There’s days’ worth of snowfall on the car and around it, but Stiles still goes searching for anything she might have left behind, like signs or footprints or—ah. Two arrows painted on trees in bright red, indicating where she entered the forest. Stiles walks carefully through the snow closer to the treeline. He peers into the forest and thinks he sees another slash of red on a tree further in. Knowing her, she’s left marks the entire way.

He could _kiss_ her.

Old Stiles could take a few notes.

From the treeline, he can’t see the mysterious light. Well, not _through_ the trees; he looks up and can see the glow through the canopy. It’s the only source of light pollution in their immediate area and it’s strong enough to stand out.

“What are you doing over there?” Bowen calls.

Stiles turns and points at the trees. “Lydia’s helped us.”

Peter makes a thoughtful noise and takes a few steps towards him.

Something moves in the magic. A pulse, almost like a ripple rolling through water, passes through from the forest behind him out beyond the road. Stiles shudders as it passes through him. It feels familiar, like . . . like . . .

Paul jerks when it rolls past him. “What was that? What did you just do?”

Stiles holds up his hands. “I didn’t do anything!”

“What?” Naomi and Peter say.

Paul points at Stiles. “He’s fucking with the magic somehow.”

“I am not!” Like Stiles _could_.

“Paul,” Bowen says warningly. “Calm down.”

Paul gestures emphatically at the forest, sparks escaping the ends of his fingertips. “We have _no idea_ what’s happening in there or why he’s keeping us out and you want me to _calm down_—”

Naomi’s eyes widen. “Stiles, get over here!” The panic in her voice is enough to make Stiles move. As he does, Peter starts forward.

Stiles looks back and sees two people standing in the gap marked by Lydia’s arrows. One of them raises an arm right as Stiles’ foot unexpectedly sinks into deep snow. He falls over as a different wave of magic passes through him.

Snarls erupt and Bowen howls.

Stiles pushes up from the snow in time for Peter to grab him and yank him to his feet. In front of them, Bowen and Naomi have shifted and are grappling with the two figures. Behind them, still by the road, Paul mutters something. There’s a familiar cadence to the words and—shit, he’s casting something. Stiles spins around. “No! Don’t!”

A lightning ball grows in front of Paul—then evaporates. His face goes grey, his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he collapses where he stands. From here, Stiles can feel the outpouring of energy from him. It’s being sucked out, drained, and Paul’s body seems to be mirroring the process physically.

“Oh god,” Stiles manages. Paul’s body gets smaller and tighter and the flesh just _melts_—

“Time to go.” Peter drags Stiles away. Stiles keeps his eyes on Paul long enough to see bones emerge as the flesh disappears, then faces forward. They sprint around the skirmish between the wolves and the two mysterious people—Stiles manages to see that one of them is smaller and slighter than the other, but that’s it—before he and Peter plunge into the forest. They run, following the red marks on the trees, and leaving the sounds of fighting behind them. Peter’s grip on Stiles’ wrist is like iron.

They run until Stiles’ legs almost give out and his sides are on fire. He slows and stops to catch his breath, while Peter stands next to him, breathing heavily. The trees around them are dead, the wood twisted and dry and the boughs empty. Snow lies in small sporadic patches on the ground, revealing hard soil and dry twigs. The only light comes from the stars and the strange glow.

“Oh my god,” Stiles gasps, “don’t I work out in my thirties?”

“You do, but you don’t run,” Peter says.

“When I go back,” he sucks in a huge breath, “I’m going to—_huuuuhhhhhh_—remedy that.”

“Who were those two people?” Peter’s looking back the way they came. “Who could possibly be conscious in all this?” He gestures at the air around them.

“Maybe they’re the ones behind the spell. Two people, not just one.” Stiles straightens. Another pulse of magic rolls past, similar to the one Paul accused him of making. It’s hard to tell without using his own magic to reach out, but it seems to be coming from the direction of the glowing light.

Wait. Paul. Stiles frowns. “Paul said something. _He_’s keeping them out.”

Peter nodded. “I caught that too.”

“So just one person? Then who attacked us?” Stiles tries to remember what he saw of the figures as they ran past them. “I think one of the people was a woman.”

“I wasn’t concentrating on them. I wanted us out of there.” Peter sounds annoyed. “Shit. I should’ve looked closer.”

Stiles looks around them. “So, I take it the campout-in-the-Jeep plan is scrapped.”

Peter glances behind them. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

“Roger that. Hiking in the woods, just like old times.” Stiles winks at him.

For some reason, Peter doesn’t find that hilarious. “Oh yes, the memories of biting Scott and running around the Preserve. How nostalgic.” They start walking.

“I think I preferred it when you were the scary thing in the forest,” Stiles admits.

Peter just sighs heavily.

They have to squint to see the paint on the trees. It doesn’t glow in the dark, but it does gleam slightly in the starlight. Lydia did a good job marking them though; they don’t have to struggle to find the next tree.

After a while, Stiles takes stock of his coat and pockets. “I have my phone, wallet, the primer, half a bag of Twizzlers—”

“Wait, when did you buy—”

“—and some trail mix.”

Peter grumbles as he pats himself down. “Phone, wallet, keys, hanky.”

Stiles gapes at him. “You own a hanky? What? How didn’t I notice you being such an old man?”

Peter stares back at him. “Stiles. Come on. Everyone should have one.”

Much as he wants to tell Peter how wrong he is, Stiles instead points out the obvious: “We don’t have water on us.”

Peter looks up at the glow visible through the canopy. “I don’t think it’s far in. A few miles maybe. We’ll be okay without water for that long.”

Stiles holds up one finger. “No. You don’t _know_ that. I’m a squishy human, remember? We need water, like, all the time. I need water _now_ after sprinting for my life.”

“There’s literally snow over there, Stiles, if you're that desperate. You’re going to be—” Peter’s head whips around and he stops dead. Stiles stops too. Peter raises a hand for silence, then whispers, “Someone’s coming. From behind.”

Stiles suddenly doesn’t care about water. “Keep going or stand and fight?”

Peter looks torn. “Keep going. If we can shut down whoever’s doing this, maybe we can avoid a fight with whoever’s behind us.”

Stiles nods. “Cool. Let’s take out the bad guy.”

They continue walking, aiming at the next marked tree. Two steps in, and Stiles is enveloped in total silence.

He stops. “Peter, something just happened.” His voice sounds strangely flat. He turns and reaches out—but Peter isn’t there.

He’s alone.

There’s no helpful glowy light through the canopy above.

And around him, on every single tree, is a red slash.


	24. Chapter 24

“Okay. Oooookay. Don’t panic, Stiles.”

Easier said than fucking done. His major advantage in this situation just disappeared from sight and his second advantage has replicated itself across all the trees.

Plus he hates the fucking woods at night. This is how horror movies start—no, this is how horror movies _end_. He’s now reaching the gruesome _ending_. Oh fuck, he’s way too young to die.

Especially in this situation. Like, seriously? _This_ would’ve been an amazing example in the labyrinths book. If he gets out of this, he’s writing the author and telling him about the complete shitshow the magic is pulling right in front of his eyes. Honestly, it’s incredible.

Now that Stiles really thinks about it, the maze stuff has been there since the beginning. He really should’ve seen it earlier, all the patterns and effects. Can he blame it on jet lag? He thinks he can and he does. It’s increasingly obvious: redirection out of the area, or entrapment within. Once inside the area, redirection _within_ happened. Looping the highway would eventually have left them without fuel and trapped on the road—maybe they’d have succumbed to the magic and been like all the people they passed, lying in their cars or on the road and feeding the spell.

Only, luckily for him, he bypassed all of that to find himself trapped here, alone, in the forest, at night, surrounded by magically-marked trees, and no helpful glowy light thing to guide him. And, apparently, someone coming up from behind.

Goddamn, he’s seen this movie and he doesn’t want to be in it.

It’s so tempting to run, but he doesn’t want to go in the wrong direction.

_Deep breath, Stiles_. _Think._

Again, the magic has to be acting on things around him, thus he’s seeing magicked items, rather than having himself spelled.

Not _particularly_ helpful, but it’s a start. It has to be.

He really wants water.

And, fuck it, he wants Peter back.

If logic follows through, Stiles probably isn’t actually alone. Maybe Peter’s right next to him, but Stiles can’t see him or hear him.

He eyes the empty space where Peter just was and swipes his arm through it. Nothing. If Peter’s still there, he’s being hidden very well.

What if something’s happened to him?

Shit.

“Peter?”

No answer.

Whether he’s actually there or not, Stiles is effectively on his own.

He hasn’t moved his feet—he thinks—so he takes some steps forward to the closest tree. He can’t remember which one had the paint on it before the magic separated him from Peter, but he thinks it was the one closest to him. He runs his hand over the bark. His fingers come back clean.

Rats.

He turns to another nearby tree and tests the mark on that. This time there’s paint residue on his hands. Success, all he has to do is . . .

He sees the thousands of trees stretching into darkness beyond him, all with a red slash, and sighs. Trying every single one will take all night.

Another pulse of magic travels through the air, and Stiles wants to cry. What does any of this _mean_? When he catches up with the asshole who did all this, he’s going to kill him. Literally kill him. The law can go to fuck. Then he’s going to somehow find his older self and wring his neck for not detailing _this_ part in the primer he had _twelve fucking years to write_.

Something snaps in the forest far behind him. Stiles freezes, then, without moving his feet, looks behind him very carefully.

He can’t see anyone in the darkness. But something else snaps, and there’s a stomp, and okay, someone’s coming through the trees. Like Peter said they were. Only, now they’re close enough for _him_ to hear.

Stiles faces front and starts jogging.

Moving is a mistake but he can’t stay still, not with who-the-fuck-knows coming up behind him. He definitely can’t use magic, not after what happened to Paul.

_Think. Think. Think._

What did that stupid repetitive book that he totally shouldn’t have dismissed say?

Magic mazes – intent. Solving them lies in understanding the intent of the caster.

And something about . . . magic mazes can be anything. No fucking shit.

They can be countered with magic—not this one! His one awesome supernatural power and he can’t even fucking _use_ it! Argh, typical. He doesn’t want to end up like Paul.

Actually, he can’t think about Paul right now. That’s put in the _too much_ box to be unpacked later.

Okay—and non-magic people can counter the effects too.

He pauses. Peter can’t use magic. Maybe he’ll be able to counter some of the effects due to his werewolfy nature, but that’s not a solid assumption. He’s a smart guy, but Stiles should try to help him, if he can. Fuck, he can’t leave him behind.

Maybe he’s still where Stiles left him.

Heart thudding, Stiles turns and heads back in what he hopes is the direction he came from. The sounds of footsteps comes closer and closer. He sees the red eyes first and ducks quickly behind a large tree.

Bowen slowly emerges from the dark, eyes red and a scowl on her face. Her claws and fangs are out, and blood is spattered over her hands and chest. She keeps scanning the trees.

Stiles presses himself as flat as he can against the trunk of the tree. He’s scared to breathe, because his breath emerges as silvery puffs in the air. All she has to do is glance over at the right moment. He covers his mouth with his forearm.

He hears her move past his tree on the other side, her steps hesitant. “Fuck,” she mutters. “Fucking trees. Fucking magic. Fucking _Jo_. Fucking Paul and his fucking impatience. We were so _close_.” She sniffs. “They’re here . . . they _were_ here? Nothing smells the way it should. _Fuck_. When I find them . . .” She strides forward, past the tree Stiles is hiding behind. He risks a glance and sees her continue on the way he chose when he started walking.

Seems she can smell him, sort of, but clearly she can’t hear him. His heart’s pounding loud enough for a baby werewolf to hear from the other side of Maine, and she’d walked straight past him.

If Stiles were Peter, where would he be? Following Bowen? Almost definitely. This is a good opportunity to take her down.

That said, if Bowen can smell him, then maybe Peter can too.

Fuck, Stiles just doesn’t know. He’s certain, though, that if Bowen is tracking him, he’s in big trouble. He doubled back on himself, meaning Bowen will very shortly reach the end of his scent trail. Is there time to figure out if Peter’s nearby? Somehow? No.

He chooses a different direction and starts running, avoiding sticks and debris where he can.

It’s hard to think while running and hoping the alpha werewolf on his trail is confused enough to not follow him, _and_ hoping the werewolf he’s surprisingly and massively attracted to is okay.

So. Magic. Magic magic magic. Countering it.

What did non-magic people do to counter magic? _Think, Stiles_. What had the book said? _Traditional means._ Traditional. That meant hearth magic, the stuff that anyone could do to resist malevolent spells. Charms and chants. Burn or mix things to harness energy from chemical reactions. Prayers were supposed to work, but he’s pretty sure that’s just the power of belief dressed in religion. Turning widdershins three times. Avoiding faery circles. Keeping flowing water between you and an enemy. Using the physical world and a person’s own power to resist or divert magic.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he stops to dig it out. The screen does a strange flicker—he sees part of a normal text notification from Scott: _U doing okay bud_—then the black takes hold again.

So the screen isn’t consistently dysfunctional. It’s a little strange, actually. Why isn’t his phone more affected?

And wait, Paul had sent a drone into this area. Its film had gone staticky, but it had kept working.

And Lydia’s car. She wasn’t a spellcaster by nature, she had to use potions and mixes to generate magic. Her car wouldn’t have had the same protections as his, yet it had made it here too.

The lights had stayed on in the hotel. So had the water, the heating, electricity.

An old connection bubbles up. Metal. All of these things have metal components to them. Metal works against the supernatural. Silver against werewolves. Gold against various creatures. Cold iron against faeries and general magic.

He stares at his phone. The screen isn’t iron, obviously, it’s glass or plastic, but the inner frame and chipboard would have multiple metals worked into it. He can’t use it without the screen though. He puts it back into his pocket and starts walking again.

So the phone screen is black due to magic. And the drone screen went staticky. The magic hid Peter from him and the glow from the sky.

This magic is messing with what he can _see_. And hear, yes, but seeing is so primary for the majority of humans that messing with it seriously trips them up.

He needs a way to see or hear through the magic, ideally using metal.

He pats himself down quickly. The food is in plastic packets, the primer is paper, his wallet is leather and plastic, the phone isn’t helpful enough, the aluminium zips might do something—

He stops, hand against his scarf. The wedding ring presses into his collarbone under his clothes.

Stiles hastily digs it out. The chain is silver, the ring itself is platinum. Not iron. It’s rapidly turning cold in the winter air though.

Maybe prayers aren’t such a dumb idea.

He sends out a wordless, desperate request, then puts the ring up to one eye and looks through it.

The forest meets him as it’s been the entire evening, dark, shadowy, shafts of starlight—but the trees are unmarked. He scans up to the sky and sees the distinct glow to his right. Relief has him choking back a laugh. He then scans the area around him through the ring.

To his left, standing by a tree and looking horrified and lost, is Peter.

Stiles sucks in a breath. He’s here. He stayed with Stiles, despite being unable to see him. Thank fuck for werewolf smelling abilities.

Stiles closes the eye not looking through the ring and it’s like the magic falls away. Sound returns, and with it the rasp of Peter’s breath and muttered curses. Stiles lets out something between a laugh and a sob; Peter’s voice sounds so good.

Stiles goes up to him, keeping the ring over one eye and focusing through it. With some difficulty, he tugs at Peter’s collar. Peter doesn’t stop moving around, which doesn’t help. Stiles eventually pulls out his wedding ring and Peter goes very still when he notices it lying out in the open over his coat. “Stiles?” His tone is disbelieving.

Stiles picks up the ring and holds it up to Peter’s eye. Peter jerks back, then grabs his hand and keeps the ring against his eye. “Stiles!”

“Hey.”

“Thank _fuck_.” His entire body sags in relief. “You disappeared, but I could still smell you.”

“You followed me?”

“Of course.” Peter reaches out and pulls him into a hug. “Metal and magic. I completely forgot. I know you’d figure something out, you _genius_.”

Stiles smirks into Peter’s shoulder, but only for a moment. “It’s not enough.”

“It’s something.”

“We’re off Lydia’s path now. And Bowen’s following us.”

“It’ll be okay. We’re not helpless.” Peter leans back, smiling smugly. “Told you the rings were important.”

_What_? Stiles’ blood runs cold and his hand clenches in Peter’s jacket. “How—did you know we’d need them? Did Old Stiles tell you about this?! Did you _know_?”

The smile disappears and Peter reels him in close. “No. I’m joking, Stiles. I didn’t know anything about this.” One hand brushes heavily through Stiles’ hair and Peter exhales heavily. “I just . . . Bad timing. It’s honestly pure luck you went along with me on keeping yours with you.” He scowls. “If I had known about this, you’d better believe I wouldn’t have let us anywhere _near_ the east coast, let alone this forest. I’m never coming back to Maine and neither are you. Fuck their good cocoa and excellent hospitality.”

Stiles makes himself calm down. He’s jumpy and overreacting. Just, the thought that Peter would’ve known more than he’s shared about this . . . Wait, that’s practically his MO. When did that change? When did Stiles think differently? _Know_ differently?

Not the time: alpha in the vicinity.

“Save the crappy jokes for later, yeah,” he manages.

Peter’s jaw works, then he adds, “And just so you know, I’ll be having words with you. Older you. When you’re back.”

“Honestly, I can’t blame you.”

Neither of them have let the other go.

“I think Bowen’s under the spell too,” Stiles says. “She didn’t hear us, but she smelled us.”

Peter steps away. “Did you see her too?”

“Yes. She’s following us by scent.” Stiles takes a step away, reluctantly, and a stick breaks under his foot. He jumps. “She probably heard that though.”

Peter looks behind them. “We need to stay ahead. Split up, confuse her.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No way. We have to figure out why we couldn’t see each other, but we could see her.”

Peter frowns. “I thought divide and conquer. Separate us from our friends, expose us to our enemies. Bowen’s clearly on her own side, not ours.”

“But _why_?”

Peter tugs on Stiles’ arm. “Let’s walk while we think this out. Any head start is a good one.”


	25. Chapter 25

They walk briskly in the direction of the glow. No paint-marked trees are in sight, but Stiles is certain he’ll see the marks again if he lowers the ring. It’s not easy to walk with one eye closed, but he makes himself manage.

“What do we know?” Peter starts. “Paul mentioned a ‘he’. Two people attacked us.”

“Bowen mentioned Jo,” Stiles remembers. “And Paul.”

“Jo, as in her niece, Jo? Perhaps Jo was one of the people who met us back there,” Peter muses. “You couldn’t hear Bowen, but when she was closer, she called for Naomi a couple of times. Swore a lot. Called something ‘unnecessary’.” He makes a disgruntled noise. “It wasn’t clear what was unnecessary, whether it was Paul’s attempt to help or attacking those two or the situation in general. I get the impression none of this was how she wanted things to unfold.”

“Her and I both. She wanted us to go into the forest together tomorrow.” Stiles glances up at the glow. “Without that light as guidance.”

“I noticed that too. Suspicious. I think Bowen knows much, much more about this situation than she’s told us.”

“_No_ _shit_, _Peter_.”

“My bet is she knows who’s cast this and why they’ve done it.” Peter huffs. “She needed us to get this far. If she and Paul had figured out how to get in here before we arrived, she would’ve gone in already.”

Stiles shrugs. “She wanted us to stick together and kept trying to calm Paul. Maybe she genuinely wanted our help.” He doesn’t really believe that, but it’s possible. Bowen hasn’t been exactly effusive with her feelings about them.

“Or we’re effectively cannon fodder. Did you see how Paul shrivelled up like that? He used magic the other day checking those people, and it only lightly affected him. Same for you. A spell here and—” Peter snaps his fingers “Gone. No mercy. Guaranteed that wasn’t the plan, Stiles. If I were her and Naomi, I’d have wanted him next to me, helping me get through this forest and safely to the asshole at the centre of all this. And I’d want the unexpected visitors poking their nose into my business to be next to me too, making the mistakes so I don’t have to.”

“Or to run in and save the day so _she_ doesn’t have to,” Stiles muses.

Peter slaps his shoulder. “Exactly.”

They walk in quiet for a few moments.

Then Peter says, “She’s behind us still. And there’s someone behind her, gaining fast. I don’t think it’s Naomi.”

Stiles shudders. “We can’t fight effectively like this.” He gestures to the ring he’s holding to one eye. His arm’s already tired from holding it up so that he can walk in the right direction. “Not with this spell all around us. The magic seems to react to us, have you noticed that?”

“No. Not a spellcaster, remember, honey?”

Stiles sighs loudly. “It’s like whoever’s doing this set things up to specifically block _us_. Like they know what we’re doing.”

Another pulse of magic rolls through. What the hell _is_ that? It reminds Stiles of sonar. Magic isn’t sonar though, and this is just a wave of magic, a ripple in the spell. But it’s regular like sonar. And it’s much stronger here than out on the road.

“I have a different theory. They expected us—or people like us.” Peter points ahead of them. “I checked Lydia’s phone location this morning and it hasn’t changed. Paul still directed us to this location. If I were casting this and I were aware of us, I’d have sent way more intense blocks to stop us, and _I’d have moved location_. No way would I want anyone getting near me. So I think Lydia’s distracted the spellcaster and is keeping them in one place. Their default plans are what’s happening here. Really, if I’m right and she’s distracted them, it’s an amazing opportunity for us. Don’t ever tell Lydia I said that.” He looks behind them. “They’re getting closer. I could run with you on my back.”

“And pull some _Twilight_ shit? Are you kidding me?”

“Now isn't the time for pride, Stiles.” He stops short. “Stiles. There’s someone ahead of us now.”

Stiles stops too. “What? Who? _How_?”

“They’re coming closer, and quickly.” Peter looks about. “I think we need to split up.”

“Peter, no.” Stiles grabs his arm. “We have to figure out this spell. Intent, isolate the intent, because the solution is in the intent behind the spell. If we can solve this, we’ll be free of the spell and whatever’s coming after us will stop.”

Peter stares at him in disbelief. “Stiles. There’s an alpha werewolf behind us and two people we don’t know but who I’m _pretty certain_ don’t have our health and safety at heart. Survival is more important right now.”

A figure appears in the forest before them. Peter shoves him. “Run!”

Stiles drops the ring, letting it fall against his chest. Immediately all the marks on the trees come back and Peter disappears. The figure doesn’t change though. They come closer and Stiles swallows. It’s Jo, and she’s covered in deep, bleeding wounds. Despite the cold, she’s only wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, with thin sneakers on her feet. Her ponytail is messy and dead leaves are stuck in her hair and her clothes. There’s a horribly vacant expression on her face and a budding fireball between her palms. Without a word, she aims it at him.

Stiles throws himself to the side and rolls away, hitting a tree. The fireball explodes into a tree behind him and he hears the telltale crackle of wood catching alight.

He scrambles to his feet and sees Jo step back, new slashes emerging across her chest. She holds up one arm in a block position and pushes forward. Fighting Peter, but Stiles can’t see his side of the fight.

He scrambles away and runs, checking his direction every so often with the ring.

He’s pretty sure, given those wounds and her clothing, that Jo should be dead. Maybe she actually is dead.

He’s 2000% certain Jo wants him and Peter dead.

The question is, how the hell did she leave a fight with Bowen and Naomi reasonably intact, and get in _front_ of him and Peter? And why?

The only obvious answer is fucking magic.

He checks the glow above the canopy. Still there, but he’s got no idea if he’s any closer or not. He keeps going, slowing to a walk when he can’t run anymore. The cold presses in as his body heat goes down.

There’s less snow here now; when he spots a patch, he immediately bends down and scoops it up. There are flecks of dirt in it, and it’s icy and horrible, but he’s thirsty and doesn’t care. He lets it melt in his mouth, each drop inadequate balm.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise and he spins around.

Behind him, far back in the trees but lit up clearly by streaks of starlight, is a figure. A man, running. Lean, slender, relentless. Aiming right at him.

Stiles almost chokes on the remaining snow; instead he spits it out and backs hurriedly away, smacking into a tree. There’s no point in trying to run; that kind of speed isn’t possible for a human to match.

The guy slows when he approaches Stiles. Closer, Stiles recognises him now. It’s the third candidate, the wannabe druid dentist dude from Bangor whose neighbours hate him.

Guess he knows who’s at the centre of all this now.

Whatshisface—Langley? Stiles thinks the name is Langley—raises his hands, a small fireball building between them. Just like Jo. His face is blank and eyes are empty. Just like Jo. And just like Jo, he should be dead, only in his situation it’s because half of his intestines are hanging out in front of him.

Stiles prepares to duck aside when Langley is tackled from the side by a snarling blur. The fireball ends up on the ground and fizzling to nothing.

Stiles fumbles aside then pauses. He can see the new person—it’s Naomi. She hauls herself to her feet, then picks the guy up and throws him deep into the forest.

Stiles isn’t exactly sure how to interpret that. She spins to look at him. Like Bowen, her hands and front are covered in blood. She nods. “Stiles.”

“Naomi.”

She advances on him and he backs up quickly. “He was about to finish me off, so if that’s what you’re about to do, you’re totally expending unnecessary effort,” he babbles quickly. “Oh god—I’m chewy! Majorly stringy! You don’t want to maul me, I swear!”

She stops. “Jesus. I expected better from one of the most powerful spellcasters in the States.”

Stiles gapes at her. “I can’t use magic in here! All I have is my wit!”

She raises her eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

Wow, rude. “He’s going to come back right? What are you waiting for?”

She shrugs. “I think keeping you alive is our ticket to staying alive. Bowen disagrees.”

He’s gobsmacked to hear her admit it, but only for a moment. “What _the fuck_ is going on here?”

“Well, one—” she raises her hand and starts counting off on her fingers “—you and Peter were very much not invited, so, really, you only have yourselves and your stupid packmate to blame for being here. Okay? We were handling this without you. Don’t get angry about a situation you put yourselves into. Being angry helps nobody.

“Two: Paul is dead and we need a spellcaster. Bowen doesn’t think so, but this is why she’s the alpha and I’m the left hand. As far as I’m concerned, it covers more bases if you’re alive.” She gestures behind her. “Hence, helping you.”

“Peter?” Stiles asks.

She shrugs. “Eh. So that’s why I’m disobeying my alpha and _not_ mauling you. Don’t make me regret it, Stiles.

“Three: there’s a spellcaster in the middle of the forest and he needs to be taken down—alive. We’re pretty sure he’ll see you as the biggest threat so will focus the blocker spells on you. What you should—”

She spins around and launches herself at Langley, who’s returned.

This is nuts. The entire pack is insane. Stiles takes the opportunity to run.

He’s very tired of running. When he checks the sky through his ring, the glow is to his right, which isn’t what his internal sense of direction is telling him. Fuck forests. He adjusts his running accordingly.

Peter and Naomi thinks he needs to get to this guy and shut him down. It’s not like Stiles disagrees—that’s clearly the number one thing that’ll resolve everything—but he’s not going to get there quickly if he’s tired out from dodging Bowen and two zombies.

Peter had been right. He should’ve dropped his pride and let Peter carry him at werewolf speed through the forest. Revel in the _Twilight_ moment and laugh about it later. At least there would _be_ a later.

Peter isn’t with him—he does a quick check: no, he isn’t—so that’s not an option. Instead, he needs to circumvent this spell with more than a damn ring.

Intent. What’s the fucking intent of all this? What does the guy at the centre of this _want_? Why would he put all this in place, block people from . . .

It hits him.

_He’ll see you as the biggest threat, so will focus the blocker spells on you._

_No way would I want anyone getting near me._

_We have no idea what’s happening in there or why he’s keeping us out._

Stiles stops short.

Holy shitballs.

He’s so stupid.

_The intelligent traveller with an understanding of psychology will deduce the purpose of the maze and thus its solution._

If he were harnessing the power of the ley lines and fucking up a massive area, he’d be doing it for an important reason, one so important he wouldn’t want to be stopped or interrupted. Definitely not interrupted. How would he stop people? By using the reservoir of magic, obviously. Block people.

Non-magic users are a low-level threat and sources of energy. Knock them out and keep them down. Siphon them.

Spellcasters are high-level threats. Stop them from getting in by diverting them out of the area no matter what.

And if, somehow, people protected themselves with defensive spells and got into the area anyway? Stiles would set more traps to stop them. Continuous loops on the main roads accessing the area. Magic that would warp their surroundings, because that wouldn’t counter the protective spells but would still have an effect. Keep the people trapped until they passed out and could be used for energy.

And if they somehow got past that? If they somehow got very, worryingly close? Stiles would amp it up. If they tried to use magic, he’d suck it all out of them, every last drop of magic and energy. If they tried to get closer, he’d make their surroundings impossible to navigate. He’d isolate friends and expose enemies. He’d have some magic-wielding meat puppets on hand to hunt down those people. And anyone who got close would end up so disoriented, tired, scared, or dead, that they wouldn’t even consider pushing through to where he is.

Because he wouldn’t want to be stopped or interrupted.

He wouldn’t want to be found.

“All of this is to keep us from finding him,” Stiles says aloud. “From stopping him.”

There’s a horrible slithering sound from behind him. Stiles turns.

Langley approaches quickly, one leg dragging slightly, one arm hanging at an unnatural angle and his jaw unhinged. His eyes are locked on Stiles. There’s no sign of Naomi.

Stiles backs away, mind racing. He trips over something and goes sprawling. The weight of the stuff in his jacket hits him: Twizzlers, his phone—and the primer.

_Remember Lydia_.

He can’t believe it took him this long to figure it out.

“I’m not here for him!” he shouts.

Langley stops, one hand raised.

Stiles tries to remember the third guy’s name. “I’m not looking for . . . Robert?”

Langley lowers his hand.

He stands. “I’m looking for my friend, Lydia Martin. That’s who I’m here for. I don’t care about Robert or any of this bullshit with Bowen’s pack. He can do whatever the hell he wants. I’m here to help Lydia.”

Stiles makes sure to inject the truth into his words, to truly believe it as he says. It’s true, of course. That _is_ why he’s here. That’s the only real reason why he’s here. Old Stiles made it clear, over and over again. Help her. Don’t get distracted. Robert whasisname is the distraction, Lydia is the goal.

He also made it clear that magic is immense and powerful, tricky and unwieldly. But it has very strict rules. And if the intent is strict enough, literal enough, narrow enough, then dodging a spell is sadly easy.

The marks on the trees fade away. Langley turns around and shuffles off. And when Stiles can’t see him anymore, he looks up and the glow is distinct from the darkness of the sky and forest. Peter isn’t anywhere to be seen or heard. Stiles is alone, again. He tucks the ring back inside his coat and keeps walking.

It’s difficult to judge the passage of time. With every step, he thinks, _Lydia_. It’s a kind of charm of its own. He tries not to think of Naomi or Bowen or Paul. He tries not to think of Peter, but largely fails. He absolutely refuses to think about Robert.

The cold presses in on him now. There’s no snow anymore. Stiles suspects it’s been sucked dry of energy, the way the trees have been. His stomach is empty but hunger is staying at bay. Thirst isn’t though—he doesn’t think his throat has ever been so dry. He keeps moving, jogging slightly every now and then to stay warm. If he stays out overnight, there’s a good chance he’ll be dead by morning of exposure, but that’s another thing he tries not to think about. He’s hopeful that somehow things will work out. Every so often, that annoying, repetitive pulse of magic surges around him.

_Lydia, Lydia, Lydia._

_Peter._

_Lydia._

_Peter._

Seems weird to be chanting the names of the two great romances of his life in the middle of a dead forest in Maine in the freezing winter, but this is apparently how he rolls.

Not that he saw Peter coming. No way did he see them actually being a thing. A _great romance_ is probably overselling it, but only by a little. Stiles can’t believe Peter—_Peter_—followed him despite not being able to see him, and chose _him_ over the opportunity to take out an alpha. The Peter Stiles knows, or knew, wouldn’t have hesitated to go after Bowen. Is that what twelve years of growth and maturity can do to a person? Because it sits well on Peter. The asshole Stiles is more familiar with is still there, for sure, but this Peter with layers, nuance, priorities, _he_ is . . .

He’s alone in the cold and dark and nothing’s chasing him. He can admit it: Stiles wants to keep him. He likes him. Maybe more than likes him. It’s unexpected and intense and he’s not sure how to feel about it. A big part of it is good. _Really_ good.

And it’s entirely possible he’s realising this while Peter’s lying dead somewhere in the forest behind him. But, somehow, he trusts Peter isn’t dead. He’s not the type.

_Peter, Peter, Peter._

_Shit._

_Lydia. Lydia. Lydia._

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking before he sees a glow through the trees ahead. It’s no longer just overhead. He speeds up, because he’s fucking cold and thirsty and he wants this to be over.

As the glow becomes stronger, he slows down until he’s darting from tree to tree, trying to see what’s in front of him. The trees are spacing out and the light is very bright, almost like daylight. When he pauses next to one tree, he realises there’s red paint on it. He squints and realises that he’s looking at the treeline into a new clearing. The light illuminates a slim, elongated section that covers a final few trees directly in front of him, the clearing, and two figures in the clearing. The pulse comes again, strong now.

Then, crouching in the pool of light in front of him, there’s Lydia.


	26. Chapter 26

He lurches forward. “Lydia!”

She doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s hiding behind a tree in front of him, staring at a small pile of ashes on the ground in front of her. Her lips move, but Stiles can’t hear her. She’s wearing snow gear, dark and expensive-looking, and toting a serious-looking backpack. Her hair is braided down her back, mirrored sunglasses rest on her forehead, and her face is all concentration, all business. She’s lovely; twelve years have added a depth and darkness to her countenance that wasn’t there in her teens. Like Scott she’s got lines where she didn’t used to, but somehow they only add to her features. Stiles is abruptly glad that he gets to see her like this. Confident, impressive, in control.

She stands and takes out her phone, tapping at the screen. Then she puts the phone away, takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and walks into the clearing. There, a man stands alone: Robert, the ex-emissary gone rogue. His head snaps to her as she approaches. Stiles can see them talking to each other, then she takes a stance he recognises; he calls it her scream pose. Robert raises his hands, mouth working—and suddenly Robert’s alone, Lydia’s crouching behind the tree in front of Stiles, and that pulse of magic has swept past him again.

Stiles sags. He’s tired and cold and this is an extra problem he didn’t realise he’d have to deal with. Lydia and Robert are stuck in something. Yet another spell? An aberrant bubble of magic?

He tries to take in details: Lydia’s walking in daylight; when Stiles crouches down and stares up, he can see blue sky above her and Robert. The angle of the sun suggests afternoon. The pile of ash she crouches over could be the end result of a spell. Robert also has a backpack on him, but there's nothing else around him suggesting what he was doing in the clearing.

He watches the exchange multiple times. The loop prompts a fresh magic pulse each time it starts. At least he finally has an answer to what that is; it’s got to be magic resetting itself. Judging by how Robert starts casting something, it could even be a pull on the magic field, drawing in power over and over again.

Eventually he moves closer and cranes over Lydia’s shoulder to see her text: _Done._ She sends it to Stiles—that is, himself/Old Stiles. He pulls out his phone but of course he can't check right now. He tries to remember what messages were in there when he arrived in the future, and he's pretty sure there had been a few unread ones, but none from her. Her name hadn’t even been listed in his phone.

He follows Lydia into the clearing, not touching her or crossing the boundary between night and day. Up close, Robert looks haggard and tense. They have what’s clearly a heated discussion that ends with her about to scream and Robert casting a spell. He doesn’t finish it, the loop starts again before he does.

Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it. What it looks like is a captured pocket of time, but how? What it also looks like is unsolvable. Helping Lydia could take multiple forms: dragging her out, dragging Robert out, attempting to break the bubble they’re looping in. Can he even touch them? He’s scared to try, given the events of the past two days. He tentatively sticks a finger towards the border of the bubble.

“Stiles!”

Stiles whirls around. There, at the treeline, is Peter. He’s covered in dirt and some blood, but he’s very much alive and in one piece. He limps into the clearing while Stiles does a quick check with the ring, then runs to meet him.

“Good, you made it.” Peter opens his arms and Stiles throws himself into them. Peter immediately goes for the face and neck, rubbing their cheeks together and inhaling the crook of Stiles' neck over his scarf. “You’re freezing.”

Stiles pushes against Peter, his warmth as welcome as the sun. “Oohhhhhh that’s good.”

“You’re getting blood all over you.”

“Don’t care. Whose blood is it?”

Peter grimaces. “Multiple people’s.”

“You got past Jo and Bowen?”

Peter shook his head. “More like distracted them with each other so I could get here. Sorry it took me so long.” He pats at his leg. “I forgot how much wounds from alphas hurt. Fuck.”

That means Peter’s healing slower than normal. Not great. Stiles also doesn’t like that Bowen’s still at large. He quickly tells Peter about his run-in with Naomi. “I think you and I put a wrench in Bowen’s plans.”

Peter looks outraged. “She actually said you’re more valuable than me? Okay, you’re the magic-user, but you haven’t been able to use it at all in here. I got here through _sheer fucking strength_. I fucking outran _two_ zombies and an alpha werewolf on a banged-up leg. I’m a _prime specimen_ of werewolf power. Naomi needs to get a clue.”

Stiles tries and fails not to laugh. “Okay, yes, yes, you’re super amazing. The mean lady doesn't appreciate you.”

Peter huffs. “At least try to mean it.”

“I think we predicted right. We were supposed to help them get in, then be cannon fodder for Robert or break him out." They stare at each other for a long moment. "Soooo, we majorly messed that up. If either of them catch up with us, they're going to be _pissed_.”

“It's not just us who've thwarted her. Paul didn’t keep his head and Naomi decided she knew better than her alpha.” Peter rubs circles on Stiles’ back. “I’m grateful she did.”

Oh _man,_ that's sweet. Stiles hides his face in a clean spot on Peter's shoulder and gives himself a few moments relishing his warmth, then turns them towards the centre of the clearing. “Let’s do this.”

They walk towards Robert. Peter keeps an arm around Stiles, leaning against him as he limps. Given he got here without help, Stiles is sure he's just taking advantage, but he's so happy to see Peter and to be warmer that he doesn't care.

Peter watches the scene play out then sighs heavily. “I’m too tired for this. Explain to me what I’m seeing.”

“I think Lydia cast a spell of some kind before confronting Robert,” Stiles says. “They’re tied together, trapped in whatever she cast.”

“Why am I seeing blue sky and sunlight around them when it’s late at night for us?”

Stiles hesitates. “I think it’s a time spell. They’re replaying the same thing over and over. She confronted him during the day.”

Something pulses in Peter’s jaw. “For future notice, I’m over time spells.”

“No, really? Tell me how _you’re_ tired of them. I’m so ready to hear how _you’re_ done with them.”

They glare at each other, then Peter rolls his eyes. “Fine. Not sure why she’d cast something on the two of them. Maybe she summoned you.”

That had been Stiles’ first thought too. “Magic is very specific. She sent a text to me after she finished, which is weird—would she expect me to get it if she’d just summoned me?”

“_Did_ you have an unread text from her when you arrived?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I had unread messages, but she wasn’t even listed in my phone.”

Peter looks thoughtful. “I wouldn’t put it past you to put her under a different name. I’m not convinced. After all, who else would summon you? That guy?” He gestures at Robert. “He looks like he’s about to give himself an aneurysm. No, I think she summoned you.”

Stiles points at her tree. “This whole scene starts from when she’s finished the spell, so my guess is she cast a spell specifically on _him_ and that’s what we’re seeing right now.”

“No.”

They glare at each other again, but Stiles isn’t angry at all. He suspects Peter isn’t either. That said, all things considered, it makes sense that Lydia sent a spell out to summon him.

Peter says, “She cast a spell. How isn’t she dead?”

“She burned something. She didn’t use her own power, she used power from ingredients.”

“Amazed it worked, given how close he is and how thick this magic is.”

Stiles agrees. “Ballsy. Look, if she did summon me, what happened here? How are they stuck like this? It’s a spell that covers both of them.”

Peter watches their showdown start and stop and start again. “I don’t know. Maybe it came from him? Maybe her spell and his magic affected each other? Maybe her spell had two effects, summon you and trap him." He limps closer and takes a better look. "They’re clearly about to get into it. He started casting, probably to stop or block her scream. Looping at that point is interesting, no?”

Stiles shrugs. It's as interesting as everything else in this little vignette.

Peter huffs. “Some powerful practitioner you are. If this is a captured point of time, then that—” the scene ends and starts over, pulse of magic included “—is when the moment stops. Something or someone breaks it.”

Something about that makes a deep sense to Stiles. The spell has a beginning and must have an end. They’re seeing the end, but not how it happens. Maybe because it hasn’t happened yet. “Us,” Stiles says.

Lydia emerges from behind the tree and walks confidently over to Robert. She speaks, her expression remarkably calm for the situation. Her eyes widen just before she starts screaming. Then she's gone, returned to the tree where they can't see her.

“Thing is, what exactly are we supposed to do?” Stiles says.

“I have a few ideas,” Peter answers.

“Any that don’t involve killing him?”

“ . . . No.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Killing him is quick, but remember how much power he’s channelling. It’ll interrupt all this magic in the worst possible way. I’m not kidding when I say it would be catastrophic. We might die too. There has to be another way.”

Peter’s mouth twists. “I see. Well, I’m all ears.”

All Stiles can come up with is yanking Lydia out and knocking Robert unconscious.

“We can try that,” Peter says.

They watch them some more. No one wants to make the first move.

“Crazy how he doesn’t just blast her,” Stiles remarks.

“Banshees aren’t to be trifled with,” Peter says. “I also suspect her higher nature led her to try and _talk_ with him, which he’d be an idiot not to indulge.” He says it like it’s a ridiculous concept.

Stiles elbows him. “Hey. Higher natures have their uses.”

“So do my claws.”

“And mine.”

They spin around. Bowen stalks into the clearing from the treeline, coat shredded, eyes red, and fury emanating from every pore. Blood is spattered all over her. Stiles wonders when he got used to seeing this much gore.

Peter steps in front of him. “I got this.”

“How touching,” Bowen sneers. “Savour it, Hale. It’s the last time you’ll do anything for your pack.”

Peter rolls his shoulders, vertebrae cracking. “Like you know anything about pack, you duplicitous bitch.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Stiles carefully steps out next to Peter. “You wanted us to help you. We can still do that.”

Bowen shakes her head. “No. You two helped me by leading me to him, true. Your work is done, thank you. I’ll take care of him and the people affected by him once the spell’s lifted.” She gives him an apologetic look. “You and your packmates are loose ends and I don’t allow loose ends. Sorry, Stiles. I’ll make sure your alpha knows you died helping us. You’ll be heroes.”

Peter growls. “Was your niece a _loose end_ too?”

Bowen’s eyes flash. “I had nothing to do with that. I have no idea how she ended up in here, but she knew better than to trust Rob. Don’t you dare use her against me—she was dead long before tonight.”

_“You_ trusted him,” Peter snaps. “Is that why you’re so angry? He was supposed to get powerful, help you with something big, maybe steal some territory? Take over another major pack? And instead he screwed you over. Liked the taste of ley lines, and decided he didn’t need you after all.”

Bowen snarls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enlighten me!”

They’re monologuing, Stiles realises. Peter’s keeping her talking on purpose. He gently touches Peter’s side and backs away a couple of steps.

“You’re so fucking clueless.” Bowen advances into the clearing, eyes blazing. “But of course you'd be. How could you be otherwise? I know all about you and how the famous Hales were replaced by McCall’s pathetic excuse for a pack. So heartwarming. So _useless_. You’re a left hand without an alpha and you know it. Here’s how real packs work: a strong alpha, loyalty, and expansion. We were going to be the most powerful pack on the east coast, but then moron there”—she points at Rob—“decided he had the power to do it himself and to kick me out of our plans. _Me_. I _made_ him.”

Stiles turns on his heel and runs to Robert. He hopes he thinks of something quick.

Peter snorts. “Sounds to me like he got sick of your bullshit. Much like Naomi did.”

Bowen laughs. “And I’m sick of yours. I’ll enjoy watching your husband cry over your body before I rip him apart.” She launches at him.

“Bring it,” Peter snarls, and rushes her.

Stiles is hovering around Robert, unsure of what to do. He reaches for him, and the border of the spell sparks at his touch. He yanks his hand back.

“Get away!” Bowen bellows. Peter punches her and Stiles tries to focus on Lydia and Robert again.

He reaches for Lydia this time, but again the spell sparks at him. She starts to scream, then disappears. Stiles returns to Robert and, panicking at the awful roaring and tearing sounds from the fighting wolves, keeps his hand against the spell boundary. It sparks again, but it doesn’t actually hurt him. He reaches tentatively with his magic and realises he can push through.

Lydia comes marching up and Robert steps forward, in front of Stiles. He’s staring at the man’s back, and his hand is in warmth. He can feel the sun. He can—he frowns. He can hear Lydia and Robert talking. He keeps pushing in.

“This is none of your business, banshee,” Robert is saying.

“Death brought me here,” Lydia replies. “That _is_ my business.”

“Leave. I’ll let you go. I have no argument with you.”

“I know your alpha lied to you. I know you’re angry with your old pack. But this isn’t the answer. You’re abusing your power, turning Darach. Drop this.”

Robert shakes his head. “No. I’ve earned this. I’ll take my revenge and what I’m due, and no one’s going to stop me.”

A shout wrenches Stiles’ head to the side. Peter’s on the ground, face and neck red, and Bowen’s hands are freshly covered in blood.

Stiles goes cold, deep inside. Bowen looks up at him, face triumphant.

It’s the stupidest thing. His mind goes blank and he can't hear anything except a weird roaring in his head. This isn't right. To make it right means _balance_. She took something from him, so he’s going to take something from her. He’s going to finish this.

And he wants her to _feel_ it.

He turns to Robert and surges forward. Sunlight hits his arm, his face. Lydia sees him, freezes, then starts to scream.

Stiles wraps his hand around Robert’s neck and _pulls_ at his energy. It’s as easy as the palmful of snow.

The next moment, everything breaks—Robert’s neck, the spell encasing him and Lydia, and the connection between Robert and the vast ocean of magic they’re swimming in. Power floods through him and Stiles instinctively channels it down

down

down

burning

roaring

screaming

power 

painpainpainpainpainpainpainpain

Stiles opens his eyes. He’s on his hands and knees, on the ground.

He’s alive.

Somehow he's _alive_.

Motherfucker.

Before him lies a shrivelled body, and standing with her hands over her mouth beyond it is Lydia. He looks up at her.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “It worked.”

A gasping, rattling noise draws his attention. It's Bowen, or what's left of her. She lies in pieces on the ground, struggling to breathe. Parts of her body are smashed apart, yawning open in the chill air and steaming gently. One eye is fixed on him, wide and anguished. The magic, Stiles realises. Released magic, unchannelled. Peter lies behind her and Stiles can’t see him. Something wordless breaks in him.

A clawed hand curls over her throat.

Stiles surges to his feet—

—and smacks against an exposed brick wall. He blinks, dizzy. He’s suddenly warm and comfortable. He’s not in snow gear. And he recognises this wall. It’s the partition that separates Derek’s toilet from the rest of the loft.

“What are you doing?” Lydia says behind him.

Stiles turns around. She’s staring at him as though he’s gone crazy. This isn’t the woman he just helped; her cheeks are still full with twenty-year-old youth and she’s dressed in a tank top and shorts.

“For once we’re not hurt.” She gestures at the wall. “You don’t need to make up for that by giving yourself a concussion.”

He’s back.

He’s _back_.

Oh no.

No no_ no no no_.


	27. Chapter 27

Stiles leans against the wall, hands splayed and breathing too heavily. His skin looks different against the brick, everything looks and feels _different_.

He can’t believe it.

He just can’t.

How the fuck was that possible? Or fair? How could he _go_ like that? Just like that? He didn’t even say goodbye. And did he imagine that clawed hand? Did he make it up? Is Peter lying dead in his future?

Oh god, is twelve years all they have?

It can’t be. He won’t let it be.

Lydia frowns at him. “Stiles? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

His entire body itches and his mind is racing. He can’t be here. There’s too much to think about.

He staggers out from behind the partition. In the middle of the loft lies a dead gryphon, and the werewolves plus one kitsune stand in various proximities to it, bloodied but cheerful. The large window is shattered, there’s glass, blood, broken furniture, and feathers everywhere.

Derek’s scowling at his broken sofa. “Dammit, guys, I just got this.”

“We did it!” Erica high-fives Boyd and Kira.

Scott waves at him. “Hey dude! All good to come out now.” He picks up a gigantic paw and lets it fall, frowning. "We shouldn't have to kill something like this to get rid of it."

"Tell that to my _broken window_," Derek snarls.

Stiles catches sight of Peter by the broken window, and it’s like a punch to the chest. Peter is positively baby-faced compared to his older, greying self. He looks wonderful, even with healing scratches across his chest and blood splatter on his clothes. Stiles goes over to him, unable to stop himself or look away. The arrogance, the strength, the _life_ in him; Stiles could drink it up.

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, I _am_ still here. Don’t be too disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

Peter gives him a sharp, confused look, then turns his attention to his arm. It’s dislocated at the elbow; he resets it with a wince. He then fingers his torn and bloodied shirt with disgust.

Every action is precious. Stiles knows he’s staring and it’s weird, but he can’t pull himself away. He wants so much . . . yet how can he even begin to explain it?

Peter's eyes flicker to him again, his nostrils flare, then he rolls his shoulders and sighs dramatically. “Stiles, can I _help_ you? Perhaps out the door?”

The irritation is real; he can tell. Peter doesn’t want him and it hurts. This isn’t the Peter he knows.

Yet it _is_.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Normally he'd say something insulting back, but he can't think of anything except _you're alive_.

Peter mutters something and moves away, heading for the stairs. “Derek, I’m borrowing one of your shirts.”

Derek bounds after him. “Stay out of my room! Peter! Get _out_ of my room!”

Stiles turns around, at a loss now. There’s so much in his head, so much bursting and threatening to bubble up through him. He’s seen the future. Peter might be dead in the future, but he's more than alive and well now. Everyone's so normal. But Stiles has been awake for a full day and it’s been a horrible, horrible day.

Abruptly he remembers the walking corpses of Langley and Jo, the dead forest, the way Paul’s body disintegrated, Bowen’s shuddering breaths, and the way Robert’s neck felt under his own fingertips before he’d pulled the energy out of his body.

Stiles has killed someone.

Willingly.

He might throw up.

And he’s maybe lost Peter.

Shit shit shit shit—

An arm wraps over his shoulders and Erica presses herself against his side “Heeeey there, Stiles.” She gives him a little squeeze. “You doing okay? Because you’re a veritable _bouquet_ of scents at the moment, and not gonna lie, it’s a little freaky, even for you.” Despite the friendly tone, she’s clearly worried.

Stiles shrugs her off, sees the same confused worry on everyone else’s faces, and lurches in the direction of the front door. “I’m fine. I gotta go. I’ll—I’ll see you later.”

Scott steps forward, concerned. “Stiles—”

“I’ll call you.” Stiles rushes out.

He clatters down the stairs and out the building to his Jeep. Roscoe has never looked better, but it’s so surreal to see his Jeep and to feel the sun on his face and skin. He’ll never take Roscoe or the California weather for granted ever again. Ever.

He doesn’t consciously decide where to go, but finds himself driving home. Driving settles him down too, and by the time he pulls outside his house, he’s got only one thing in mind: sit and write down _everything_.

He goes into his room and does exactly that. He writes into the early hours of the morning, hearing his dad arrive home from the late shift, before collapsing in bed out of sheer exhaustion.

When he wakes up early to nightmares of melting flesh and blood splatter and gruesome bodies, he makes himself write more. He shudders back to sleep around dawn, and wakes up mid-morning, feeling fucking dreadful. He makes himself food, then writes still more. He blocks out everything else: his phone, his email, the doorbell, the outside world.

It’s not healthy. He knows this. His body is jerky, antsy with the stress. It’s stupid, because he’s safe at home and the only thing he has to do is relax before going back to college next week, but while all of that is lovely, none of it _fucking_ _matters_.

Details keep coming to him and he doesn’t want to miss any. He sits and writes, and if he’s not doing that, he’s pacing his room and flicking sparks out of his fingertips. Magic surges under his skin, making him irritable and unable to sit long.

When his dad yells dinner is ready that evening, Stiles realises he hasn’t eaten since breakfast or spoken to his dad since he got back. He’s all nervous tics and yawns, and his body feels like sludge, but all of that fades a little when he sees his dad—well-worn but still full-haired—and hugs him tightly.

When they sit at the dinner table, his dad actually sets his fork down and asks, “What happened to you?”

Stiles stares blankly at his plate. Lasagne and salad. “Is this ground turkey?”

“Don’t dodge the question. You look like crap.” His dad frowns. “Did you sleep okay?”

“No, not really.”

“That thing with the, the, uh, griff thing . . .”

“Gryphon.”

“Yeah, that. Was catching it bad?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. One of our better days, actually.”

His dad starts chewing on a piece of lasagne, his expression unimpressed. Stiles starts cutting up his slice.

“Did you kill someone?”

Stiles’ knife scrapes across the plate as he startles. “Oh my god dad _no_!” He lets his cutlery go so he can flail without throwing food across the room. “What—why would you even _ask_ that, holy shit, what is _wrong_ with you?”

John chuckles. “Just making sure you’re still my kid and not some transplant. I don’t think I’ve seen you that still since you were a baby.”

Stiles snorts. “I’m tired. Stayed up too late.”

“Uh-huh? You can’t keep doing that, you know. Sleep is good for you.”

Stiles tries to make conversation without acting too out of it for the rest of the meal. He’s not sure he succeeds. He cleans the dishes and watches TV with his dad for a while, then goes back upstairs. Adds some notes to his notebook. Wonders whether this is a lie he can keep from his dad in the future too. Creates a flame then a snowball in the palm of his hand. Falls into bed and sleeps for eleven hours.

The next day, he tries. He makes himself breakfast. He takes his dad a healthy lunch. He avoids texts and calls from the pack, but only goes through the notebook for the thousandth time in the afternoon. Laid out in his crappy handwriting, it seems unreal. Like it happened in a movie or in a book, not actually to him. The thing is, he remembers it so vividly—as if he could forget how the cold seeped deep into his bones, despite his snow jacket, or the way Bowen’s breath rattled through what was left of her, or the expression on Peter’s face whenever he teased him.

Peter.

It’s so quiet. Since when has Beacon Hills ever been this quiet? Stiles is going crazy.

There are two things his mind keeps revolving around: Peter and the decision to take Robert’s life. He can’t quite face that yet. He’s killed multiple monsters in multiple ways, but there’s something about this he can’t quite square away. It was too clean, too easy, too petty. He hated Bowen for hurting Peter, he wanted her to hurt as much as him, and in the moment it had all made perfect sense. Now, twelve years in the future and two days in the past, Stiles is wondering how the fuck he could do something like that to another person.

In the evening, he picks up the notebook, puts on a clean shirt, and drives over to Deaton’s vet clinic. He’s left it at a good time; there’s no sign of his friend’s motorbike outside. Deaton lets him in, and if he’s surprised by Stiles’ visit, he doesn’t show it.

“Stiles, welcome,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Stiles grips the notebook tightly. His notes are in rough chronological order, but he pushed extra details in the margins and around sentences where he could. It’s a mess, and Stiles is abruptly aware he can’t give this notebook to Deaton. There’s too much in it, and most of it illegible.

He has to tell someone though. He's going to explode if he doesn't.

“I went through time,” he says.

Deaton’s eyebrows rise.

“And I . . .” Stiles runs one hand through his hair. “It was during the gryphon attack. When I was casting. I thought I got the spell wrong, but I was pulled to the future. I got back, but . . . Deaton, I don’t . . .” There are sudden tears in his eyes and the ache in his chest is overwhelming.

Deaton gestures down the hallway past the waiting room. “Let’s sit in my office. Sounds like quite the story.”

The office is tiny and familiar; it looks the same in the future. Stiles sits on the spare chair and starts telling what happened to him. He only gives an overview, but it still takes him a while. Deaton listens carefully.

At the end, Deaton exhales heavily. “Scott mentioned to me that you’ve been difficult to contact. I can see why; you’ve been through a lot. A time travel paradox isn’t a joke.”

He believes him. Thank fuck. “The time travel I could manage—it’s leaving Peter and Lydia there, after all we went through,” Stiles says, the tears coming back. “I-I don’t know if they’re okay, if he’s okay.”

Deaton gives a reassuring smile. “You’ll find out one day.”

“In twelve years!”

“Yes, but you _will_ find out. Stiles, this is an incredible thing that’s happened.” Deaton frowns. “I’m not clear on one thing though. You say Lydia summoned you?”

He shrugs. “I think.”

“From your description of this Darach and the spell he cast over Maine, it’s surprising hers didn’t get absorbed into it.” Deaton is thoughtful. “Being a banshee, she’s resistant to certain magical effects. Perhaps that helped her spell get as far as it did. It’s not clear to me how she managed to summon you and trap the Darach in a time loop.”

“We thought the spell did both of those things.”

Stiles has realised the same unconfirmed gap while writing everything in his notebook. He’s had plenty of time to think it through and he’s convinced that has to be the answer. He collapsed the loop and killed Robert, saving her from it and from the confrontation with a power-swollen spellcaster; she was safe, and that’s when he went back to his time.

“Maybe. We might never be certain, not until you experience the aftermath.” Deaton leans forward. “One day you’ll come back to this time and help your friends with the gryphon, then return to face what happened afterwards. You have that to look forward to. You’ll get closure.”

“In the meantime I have to, to,” Stiles pats the notebook, “somehow become this incredible spellcaster with a husband and a fancy San Francisco flat, but that’s all so—”

“Wait, Stiles,” Deaton interrupts gently. “Time paradoxes aren’t to be trifled with, and you will have to prepare certain things so that they largely match your experiences in the future, yes. But life has a way of surprising us, and you do have choices about what you do. You can fulfil the paradox in a number of ways. For example, in your future, you and Peter are husbands, but what role did that actually play? You needed his help to navigate Bowen’s problem in Maine, and he was willing to help you. He could still play that role in a future where you two are loyal friends instead.”

That makes sense but sends a pulse of misery through Stiles.

“You may be a famous mage in the future, but it was your intellect and research that guided you through your experience, not your magic abilities.”

Stiles winces. “Not the last part.”

There’s a heavy pause. “I realise,” Deaton says. “However, even if you never develop your powers further, you could prepare that one spell.”

“I practised dark magic and I didn’t even hesitate,” Stiles whispers. “Shouldn’t you be telling me how wrong that is?”

“My role is to maintain balance,” Deaton says. “Not to judge. Perhaps there were alternative spells or actions you could’ve taken. But would they have worked as well? Resolved the situation so neatly? Restored all the energy he stole from the earth, people, and ley lines? Ensured your return back to this time?”

For all his worrying and thinking, Stiles somehow missed that angle. Perhaps Robert needed to die for him to come back. It doesn't make him feel better. “I don’t know. We _can’t_ know.”

“Exactly.” Deaton drums his fingers on the top of the desk. “This Robert must be Robert Anderson. I’ve met him. He’s friendly and easy to get along with; I’ve never had reason to argue with him. However, I’ve noticed he’s intense in his passions and ambitions. Once his mind is set on something, he achieves it. He and Alpha Bowen are devoted to each other, to an extent that a number of us in the, ah, spellcasting community, consider concerning. We don’t generally encourage romantic relationships with the alpha we serve. Given what you’ve described, when Robert broke down, he burned all his bridges and then some.”

“I still don’t really know what they were attempting to do,” Stiles says.

“You might never know. From the sounds of it, you saved many, many lives. Left unchecked, who knows what he would’ve done.”

Stiles sits with that for a moment. Deaton has done his usual non-judgemental schtick, and while it’s partly welcome, Stiles kind of wishes he’d said unilaterally that Stiles had made a mistake. But Stiles can’t undo it now, not for himself. Was what he did worth the positive benefits—magic restored, people freed, land released, power grab thwarted? Deaton seems to think so, but Stiles isn’t so sure.

Deaton shakes his head. “What's also concerning is how he got so far into such a spell without being stopped. Someone in our community surely would've felt or done something at some point.”

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't know what other emissaries would or wouldn't be aware of. “You can't do anything without upsetting the paradox.”

“True. Funnily enough, knowing you'll take care of the situation anyway may help with my inaction.”

Fucking time travel. Stiles sighs, pushes his magic through to his palm and sends a few sparks out, the way he’s been doing over the last two days.

Deaton frowns. “What did you just do?”

Stiles demonstrates. “I learned this back in Maine.”

“Stiles . . . you’re a spark right now. I thought your powers hadn’t reached transfiguration yet.” Deaton gestures at his hands. “Can you do other things?”

Stiles realises he’s right. Before he went forward in time, he could barely make spells work. He didn’t have the crazy amount of magic swimming in his system; he’d had to believe and try.

But he still has the magic. He hadn’t even noticed. No wonder he’s been so antsy the last two days.

He creates a globe of ice in his palm and hands it to Deaton. “I feel the way I felt in the future.”

Deaton parses that then says, “_That’s_ hard to explain too. Perhaps when you released the stolen magic, it had extra effects on you, regardless of time.”

“Maybe.”

They consider the ice in Deaton’s hand. He turns it over, light fracturing through it and dancing across his palm. “You must have a wealth of power now.”

“I think I do.”

Deaton looks up at him. “I can train you, Stiles. It’s a rewarding path, being an emissary, and I think you have an aptitude for it. However, you should take your time and consider alternatives. You hopefully have a long life ahead of you and you should do things which fulfil you.” He gestures with the ice at Stiles’ notebook. “Not because you saw the future.”

Peter said something similar to him in the Italian restaurant. Stiles has no idea what to do about this time travel thing, or how he'll ensure the paradox is fulfilled, or even what to do about Peter. But there is one thing Stiles is absolutely certain about. “I want to finish college.”

Deaton nods. “An excellent immediate plan. Think your options through while you finish your final year. There’s no rush on this. I will, if you’ll permit me, give you some reading on control techniques though. You’ll need those no matter what you choose to do.”

Stiles agrees. He reaches one finger to the ice globe and concentrates. It collapses into water that falls over Deaton’s palm and knee. Deaton wipes his hand against a dry part of his pants.

“If I can change how this plays out,” Stiles says, “then I can make the paradox easier for myself. Right? I can tell more people. Be more prepared.”

Deaton makes a face. “Yes. Potentially. It’s up to you. If you changed anything significant but kept the paradox going, you must repeat the core actions you did. Lydia investigated strange events and trapped Anderson somehow. You went to Maine with Peter, armed with helpful knowledge from your older self and focused on finding her. You took down Bowen’s pack and her ex-emissary. You came back. We don’t know what would happen if you completely broke the paradox, from either end. For certain, something would unravel somewhere. It’s a significant risk to take. Precisely what would change, and whether that’s in the future or now, I couldn’t tell you.”

Stiles’ head hurts. “For sure something would change though?”

“Yes. Perhaps quite dramatically.” Deaton pauses then says hesitantly, “You seem very focused on Peter and your future relationship with him. I'm sure finding yourself married to him was a shock.”

Oh god. Stiles wants to sink into a hole in the ground. “Yeah. It's not exactly a problem now.”

“Ah.”

“I think I maybe want that part to actually happen.”

Deaton really doesn’t look comfortable, but to his credit he barely blinks. “What I said holds true for him too. Don’t assume or expect anything. Live as though the future is unwritten. Did he tell you details about your relationship?”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, but I’m 100% certain half of it was made up.”

Deaton nods. “Good. Whatever happens, it won’t be planned by either of you. That’s perhaps the best way to approach this: you don’t know what will happen, so you can’t plan anything. Where Peter is concerned, it may be impossible to plan anything for him anyway.”

Now that Stiles has admitted he definitely wants to bone Peter for the next decade at a minimum, he's already second-guessing it. If Peter isn't his husband, he won't come with Stiles to Maine, or into the forest. Then again, on reflection, Stiles wouldn't have made it through the forest without him. Peter needs to be there, but Peter might die. Stiles can't make that decision. Maybe he _shouldn't_ chase Peter. Maybe it'll be worth unravelling the paradox for a future where Peter's alive, even if he's not with Stiles.

But if he unravels the paradox, there's no guarantee of anything.

And Stiles is sort of thinking he's maybe completely falling for Peter, and he wants _them_ so badly it hurts.

All of this is a ton to think about. Deaton has made some excellent points and while he still isn't sure of much, Stiles feels . . . yeah. _Better_. A little more in control. He feels like it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember everything or do everything perfectly—one way or another, it’ll work out. That’s more comforting than he realised it would be. “Thanks, doc. I’ll keep thinking about what I want to do and will definitely hold off on telling people. Except a therapist, maybe. If you know of any that would believe me.” Multiple bodies still linger in his brain and he’s not okay with them being there.

“I’ll reach out,” Deaton assures him. “You can always talk to me about this as well.”

“Thanks.” Not that he sees himself doing that much, but it’s good to know he has someone in his corner who knows, who believes him, who gets what a big deal this is.

“Your job now, Stiles, is to live your life. Do what you want. Prepare for this too, but you don’t have to limit yourself _by_ this. Finish college. Take up a hobby. Travel.” Deaton smiles. “Date other people, if you want. You decide your fate.”

Stiles knows. He’s not sure where to start—well, dating other people is a no-go, for one thing—but he has time to consider his options. And though that final night is seared on his brain, probably forever, and he misses Peter—Older Peter—_and_ he still has to prepare for his younger self coming forward, he feels lighter. Just sharing this with Deaton has been helpful.

Stiles stands. “Got it.”


	28. Chapter 28

Stiles sleeps much better that night.

However, the morning finds Scott at his front door armed with a scowl, snacks, and a rant. Stiles mentally braces himself and lets him in.

“So,” Stiles begins, “listen, I know I—”

“Dude, no, _you_ listen,” Scott starts. “What’s going on with you? You don’t help us clean up Derek’s loft, you ran out after the gryphon thing smelling like, like, like I don’t even know _how_ to describe how you smelled, you ignored all of us for _days_ without saying why, you ignored the group chat, you ignored everyone’s calls, you ignored _my _calls and texts—what the _hell_? I never see you when you’re at college, only on random weekends and during vacations, and you go back to school next week, and you hide yourself away like this for three days? Without saying anything? _Why_?” He goes full Puppy Eyes. “We were supposed to hang out yesterday. Plus you freaked Peter and Erica out, do you know how hard that is to do? And _you_ did it. Come on, Stiles, what _happened_?”

_Super,_ that’s extra guilt to add to the pile. He’d forgotten any plans they’d made, and seeing as Scott apparently hadn’t bailed on him for Kira, that makes Stiles extra mad at himself. He hugs him. “I’m sorry. I just . . . it’s been a rough few days.”

“Dude.” Scott hugs him tightly, then gives him the Doritos and salted nuts. “You can tell me about it over GTA.”

He doesn’t, of course. He makes up an excuse about feeling ill and having a stomach bug for a few days. Scott doesn’t totally buy it, but then Stiles starts talking about the future and how he’s reconsidering going into law enforcement, and that seems to get him off the hook. Scott typically tells him to do what he wants to do, what he thinks is best. “No matter what, you’ll kill it,” Scott says.

Stiles winces, hopes Scott doesn’t notice. “Thanks, dude. Appreciate it.” He truly does. Friends for life now, and in the future. “You’re going to stick around here?”

“Have to protect Beacon Hills.” Scott grins. “And I’m finally going to be a vet. It’ll be cool.” He takes a sip of soda. “Even if I have to share the whole territory-protection-thing with Derek and Peter. Do you think they’ll ever chill out?”

“Pretty sure the Hales are incapable of chilling out.”

“True that.”

It _is_ calming to play video games and have their bro time again, the way they used to before separating for college. Stiles enjoys himself. Normality; this is what it feels like. He hopes they manage to keep doing this way into the future, even if he ends up living in San Francisco with Peter.

Scott leaves in the afternoon, with a reminder to attend the final pack night of the vacation on the weekend. “Movie night,” he says on the front step. “Be there.”

Stiles salutes him, stomach roiling. Pack movie nights are always chaotic and hilarious, mostly because Isaac and Erica can’t shut up during any movies, Derek eats all the snacks and Scott complains about it, and it takes them about an hour to decide what to watch—_after_ voting for a top two in the week leading up to the night. Occasionally they’ve had puppy piles after particularly difficult hunts or adventures. Stiles has always found movie nights a little cringey, a little fun, and a lot ridiculous.

And of course he’ll see Peter there. It’s almost enough to not go—what is he going to do? He can’t hide his feelings from him. Impossible with werewolves.

But he starts responding to the group chats and texts that night. He gathers the college work he brought and does some of it the following day. He makes his dad healthy food and freezes it, so that his dad has no excuse not to eat it. Life starts to feel normal.

On the evening of the pack movie night, Lydia shows up without warning. He blinks at her when he opens the door to her. “Hi? What are you doing here?”

“Taking you to Derek’s.”

He glances at his phone. “Did you tell me . . .?”

“No.” She jerks her head at her ridiculous pimped out car. Never let it be said the Martin family skimped on their daughter. “We’re going together, and you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you.”

Stiles gathers his things and joins her in the car. As she starts driving, she says lightly, “Last week, when we tackled the gryphon, I got a strong sense of death off you at one point.”

Of all the things Lydia could’ve said, he hadn’t expected that. “Could’ve been the gryphon, right?”

She shoots him a withering look. “I sense death of _people_, Stiles. You know that.”

“You sure you felt that?”

“I’m always sure.” She turns onto the road leading downtown. “It was after it died, but before you freaked out and left. Suddenly you were just _covered_ in it. I couldn’t figure out how, because you and I didn’t fight. Then you stared at Peter like a weirdo, freaked everyone out, left, and didn’t speak to us for days. So,” and her voice is hard, “what’s going on?”

He taps his fingers on the glove compartment until she glares at him. “Did I seriously freak people out?”

She makes a small exasperated noise. “A bit. You acted weirder than normal and I think most of them have brushed it off as you being you.” She frowns. “The thing was, you were weird the entire time you did the spell, and afterwards. You were so _calm_. It was like you were someone else.”

Stiles shrugs. “How’s that possible?”

“I don’t know, but I know what I felt that day. And you seem kind of out of it still. And don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question earlier.”

They’re coming up to Derek’s loft now. He wants to tell her everything. He thinks he _could_ tell her everything. But would she believe him? Stiles runs his hands through his hair, then makes a decision. “Not now. Okay? Later. When I’m ready.”

She nods. “Fine. Now, enjoy tonight. It’s the last time we’ll all be here together before the summer.”

Stiles exhales slowly. “I never enjoy movie night.”

“Yeah you do.” She pulls into the parking lot and does a neat reverse park. “Come on. I’ve got a bet with Kira that Boyd and Isaac are going to physically duke it out if _Citizen Kane_ wins the vote.”

Stiles has only paid minimum attention to the pack chat. “What are the choices?”

“_Citizen Kane_ and _Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift_.”

“Jesus. How were _those_ two the top choices?” He should’ve got over himself earlier. Fuck. He’s never leaving the movie choices to the rest of the pack again.

They go up to Derek’s loft and let themselves in. Erica, Boyd, Isaac and Kira are already there, Scott’s running late. Everyone’s ‘helping’ Derek rearrange his new furniture in the optimal seating positions for movie watching, mostly by laughing at his constantly pained expressions.

“I swear to god, if any of you so much as claw a _thread_ on this, I’ll kill you and bury you where no one can find you,” Derek finally snaps.

“Isn’t that Peter’s job?” Lydia says.

“Derek can do his own dirty work,” Peter says from the kitchen.

Stiles’ heartrate goes through the roof at the sound of his voice. He takes a running leap onto the sofa while Boyd and Isaac are turning it and hopes the ensuing chaos masked it. Judging from Derek’s sharp glance, he’s not sure he succeeded completely, but at least everyone’s distracted.

By the time Scott shows up with pizzas and chicken wings, the furniture layout has been decided, and Boyd and Erica are showing funny videos via the projector. Derek sits on his new sofa looking very done with everything, Peter hasn’t yet emerged from the kitchen, and Isaac, Lydia, Kira, and Stiles play with their phones and chat about their plans for the next semester.

This is familiar. This is good. Stiles can do this.

They go through the motions: voting on the movie, arguing about the vote results, choosing one anyway, diving like animals on the pizzas while Scott starts the movie, then yelling at each other to shut up as the opening credits roll. It’s _Tokyo Drift_ and Stiles is a little bummed about not seeing a classic, but this will hold everyone’s attention far better.

He’s eating a slice of pepperoni and avoiding thoughts of Peter by focusing very precisely on the stunts and cheesy lines, when Scott fumbles his soda and spills it over Stiles’ lap. Stiles shoots up, slice in one hand, drink in the other, and watches as his jeans soak through. “Scotty!”

“Sorry, dude!” Scott immediately puts his stuff down and starts patting at Stiles’ crotch with a napkin. “I totally misjudged that, I’m so sorry, damn—”

Isaac, Erica, Kira and Boyd all grin. “What a hands-on alpha you are,” Erica teases.

Stiles bats Scott’s hands away. “I’ll handle it, oh my god.” He stares at Erica. “You. Mind. Gutter. Out.”

“Too late, honey.” She flutters her eyes.

“Scott _wishes_ he could tap this,” Stiles adds.

Scott just grins. “You know it, dude.” They fist bump.

Derek’s got his head back against the sofa, eyes closed. “This is my _new couch._”

“I’m sorry!” Scott says again.

“We’re holding pack night at your place from now on.”

Scott gapes at him. “I don’t have space! Or a projector!”

“I can’t hear the movie,” Boyd says. “Shut _up.”_

Stiles puts his food down, and picks his way past werewolf and human into the kitchen. The entire front of his jeans are soaked, which would be embarrassing if it wasn’t typical of pack night—if everyone emerges without food or drink of some kind on them, it’s a miracle.

Peter’s still in the kitchen, reading something on his phone and nursing a wolfsbane beer. He gives Stiles a once over and snorts. “Thought you were toilet-trained by now.”

It’s still a surprise to see Peter this young, but the space of a few days helps. And so does the joke. This, Stiles knows.

“And I thought you’d developed a sense of humour by now.” He reaches for a kitchen towel and starts patting the worst of the liquid out. “Why do you even come to these if you’re not going to watch the movie with us?”

“Some of us have moved on from sodium-laden cheese grease and plotless stunt shows as entertainment.”

Peter’s leaning on the counter, a vision of handsome idleness and boredom. It’s deliberate, meaning he’s covering up the real reason. Stiles tries to focus on his jeans, because he wants to reach out and touch.

“Sounds like some of us can’t admit they like pack nights,” he says.

“I fully admit that I don’t like them,” Peter replies instantly.

“Maybe you need them,” Stiles says.

He doesn’t get a response, and when he looks up, Peter looks away, back at his phone. Was he staring at him?

Stiles keeps going. “I see what you mean about cheese grease though.” He remembers that veal dish at the Italian place. Peter’s got fine tastes. “You’re probably more into stone baked, fresh mozzarella, handmade kind of pizza.”

The side-eye he receives is potent, even for Peter. “Stiles. Anyone with taste buds is into real pizza.”

Stiles keeps drying out the stain. The towel’s soaked up a lot of the Coke, but his jeans still cling to his crotch. Peter keeps glancing over, and when Stiles catches him, Peter lowers his phone and takes a long swallow of beer, eyes steady on his.

Oh god. What is it about him that makes drinking alcohol sexy? Stiles hasn’t ever seen someone drink anything the way Peter does. And he can see chest hairs at the bottom of his V-neck. Argh.

Peter smirks.

Stiles flips him the finger. “That’s rude, you know. Smelling people.”

“I’m not. You’re an open book.” The smirk fades. “Though . . .”

Stiles waits. When Peter doesn’t continue, Stiles gestures with both hands. “Though what?”

“You _do_ smell different.” Peter straightens and steps closer, inhaling deeply. “Ozone. Magic. More of it.” He tilts his head. “And I hear you’ve been hiding yourself away since we took care of the gryphon. Interesting.”

Stile points at him with the towel. “This? This is why I call you creeperwolf. Creeperwolf. No shit I smell like magic. I’m a spark.”

“Yes. You are.” Peter takes another swig of beer, the long line of his throat working.

How that’s erotic is beyond Stiles, but he’s not going to question it. He croaks out, “Don’t make something out of nothing.”

Peter lowers the bottle. There’s a small slick of leftover beer on one lip. “I’m not the one protesting a little too much. And I’m just observing. My talents extend beyond burying bodies, you know.”

Oh, Stiles knows.

Wait, he’s _supposed_ to be drying his _jeans_ and pretending to be _normal_. What did he used to do around Peter? Trade insults and avoid him. Instead he wants to trade insults then lick his neck.

There’s no such thing as normal anymore.

He returns his attention to the jeans. “Keep your talents to yourself.”

Peter pouts. “You’re no fun, Stiles.” He polishes off the bottle and sets it on the counter.

Stiles scoffs. “You have no idea what fun is, creeperwolf.”

Peter’s eyebrows rise. “And you do?”

“Oh yeah.”

They stare at each other. Stiles presses the towel over his now-damp front, and Peter’s eyes flicker down and up. He crosses his arms and leers. “You saying you could show me a good time, sweetheart?”

He's kidding, but Stiles goes serious. “I definitely could. With real pizza and everything.”

There's an incredulous pause. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not.”

Peter’s eyes go wide.

Stiles is partly hurt, yes, but also amused at Peter’s disbelief. It’s so rare to see.

Peter gets his expression under control, back to studied boredom. “I have grudges older than you.”

It’s not a no. “Somehow, you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who cares.” Stiles taps the now damp towel against his crotch.

Peter’s gaze lowers again, then returns to his face. His expression is half-mocking, half-incredulous. “Go back to your precious alpha and bonding over plotless inanity.” There’s surprisingly little bite in his voice. Stiles has to strain to hear it against engine noises and early 00s Japanese hiphop, because at some point they both went quiet.

He tosses the towel over a nearby stool. “Fine.” Knowing Peter’s watching, he shifts his jeans for good measure, as the damp denim is actually uncomfortable, then heads for the door.

Just as he’s about to go through, the pack erupts with shouts and heckling at the TV, and Peter says, “Ask me again after college.”

Hope blooms, painful and bright, and Stiles turns. Peter regards him, expression curious and calculating. A thrill runs down his spine and Stiles nods.

When he walks back into the living room, everyone’s still yelling at the screen, where two dudes seem ready to fight or fuck. Stiles settles next to Scott and takes his food back.

“Everything okay?” Scott asks him over the yelling.

Stiles nods.

“Peter being weird again?”

He shrugs. “No more than usual.”

Scott bumps his shoulder then reaches over him for the chicken wings.

Stiles decides movie nights aren't so bad after all.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the later-than-usual update. It has been A Week *deep sigh*

College is relentless. Studying, writing, thinking. Stiles hands in assignments and goes to parties and practises control. He flicks through his notes and rewrites them. He thinks about Peter.

*

It’s past one o’clock in the morning and Stiles is blearily staring at a dubious site trying to find out information on pixies. He has a 9am lecture and he’s already sleep-deprived from two all-nighters earlier in the week.

He puts his head down on his desk and sighs.

“That better be a good sigh!” Scott yells from the phone by Stiles’ elbow.

“I’m tired,” Stiles whines.

“You’re tired? _You’re tired? _We’ve been fighting pixies for over a day—” a murmur interrupts Scott “—_two days_ and we’re getting our asses kicked and _you’re tired?!_”

Stiles is just resting his eyes. “The internet sucks. Don’t you have the bestiary?” He and Lydia digitised all the books, lore, and experience the pack’s had with other creatures, as well as most of the Argent library.

Scott curses. “We’ve been too busy keeping them out of the city to look shit up, Stiles. Just _look_.”

“I did.” He’d scoured the bestiary yesterday. “You already said none of it was helpful.”

There’s noise on the phone, then Derek growls, “Help us, Stiles, or I’ll rip your face off.”

Stiles yawns as multiple snarls and high-pitched giggling come down the line. Loud noises and distant cursing, then—

“Stiles.” Peter sounds out of breath. “Pull it together.”

Stiles lifts his head, eyes narrowed.

“What does the bestiary say about pixies?” Peter asks.

He sedately clicks onto the bestiary—Lydia set it up on a site so that they can update it from opposite ends of the country—and goes back to the pixie record. “British creatures. Small, mischievous, benign—” Peter snorts “—can use magic, makes plants grow.”

“They’re not benign!” Derek yells in the background.

“Maybe just the British ones are,” Stiles suggests.

“Evidence says yes,” Peter says drily.

Stiles eyes his bed longingly. “Just get Deaton to cast a spell on them.”

“Deaton is out of town at a conference,” Peter snarls. “Spells aren’t an option.”

“Boo-hoo.”

“What _else_, Stiles?”

His head is so foggy. Stiles squints at the screen. “That’s kind of it.” More fighting noises come down the line.

Magic creatures. Maybe the metal thing would work. “Try iron.”

“What?” Peter’s panting now.

“Iron. Or another base metal. You got any?”

There’s a moment where Peter is silent, but Stiles hears something rip and more giggling. Scott howls.

“Iron. Ah. Yes, that’s good against magic and magic-users.” Peter sounds grudgingly impressed. “We can get iron.”

“Cool. Go get iron and trap them in it. I’m going to bed.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Scott yells, “Peter, _wait_—” then Peter hangs up.

Stiles closes his laptop and collapses onto his bed.

*

Deaton texts him later that week to say the conference was good. It was the annual magic-users conference, and this year it had been in Des Moines. Apparently Robert Anderson had been there, giving a talk on ley lines.

Scott also messages to say the iron idea had worked and Beacon Hills is now free of pixies.

*

Stiles stands in a quiet part of the campus. It’s a small green area near the sports fields, and at this time of night, no one’s around. It’s late spring and the air is clear and cool. He sits on the ground and glances upwards. Some stars show up through the nearby light pollution, but the moon is clear and full. He closes his eyes and sends his magic down, then spreads it out.

This time he reaches the highway on the opposite side of campus, deep into the suburbs on the other side of the playing fields, and out to the closest mall far beyond his dorms. This is the farthest he’s sensed yet. The entire college campus is on the palm of his magic. He can dimly sense people, electricity, animals, buildings, but he’s learned the hard way that it’s a bad idea to try and zoom in on one thing when he’s extended over a wide area like this.

He brings himself out then plunges deep down, seeking the closest ley line. It’s several miles away, but when he’s seeking in one direction, it’s moments to cross that kind of distance. A touch and his magic is replenished. He brings himself back to where he sits in the grass, jeans slowly soaking through from night-time dew.

He touches a blade of grass with a fingertip and concentrates. It starts to wilt as he pulls a tiny amount of energy from it, then he reverses the flow and injects magic back into it. It grows a few inches and he stops. He looks at it, taller than its fellows, and smiles.

*

House parties are the best. Stiles is very drunk and the music is really good and someone brought a ton of craft beer and almost all his assignments are done and nothing’s come from Beacon Hills in at least a week, it’s _awesome_.

Of course, that’s when he gets a text from Derek: _witch in town help_.

Stiles: _no_

Stiles: _havn fun_

Derek: _this is more important than slamming back brewskies_

Stiles: _wha tdoes peter say_

Derek: _?!?!_

Scott: _omg stiles just tell us what witches are vulnerable to!_

Scott: _Peter says to burn her alive which isn’t happening you have to help us_

Stiles: _lmao_

Stiles: _BURNTHE WTICH_

Stiles: _why not_

Stiles: _Peterk now s his stuf_

Stiles: _that or water_

Stiles: _meeeeeelttttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing_

He puts his phone back in his pocket and lurches into a foosball match.

He wakes up to a terrible hangover, and a text from Scott saying they chased her out using a fire spell from Deaton, and that Peter is a massive asshole. Peter has sent a selfie of himself with a bucket of water standing behind Scott.

*

Exams come and go in a blur. He’s certain he passes, it’s just how much by that remains to be seen. He and his friends take a celebratory road trip up to San Francisco, posing by attractions and picturesque spots on the highway for the insta feed. On the way into the city, Stiles gets a text from Peter: _Nice pics_._ SF is a wonderful place._

Stiles: _You’re on insta?_

Peter: _Absolutely not._

Stiles: _Stalker_

Peter: _Eat some shrimp and crab while you’re there. And bring back some focaccia_.

Stiles: _Come get it yourself I’m not bringing back stale bread for you_

Peter: _:O_

Peter: _Tell Scott the best way to deal with a wendigo is to lure it out with bacon._

Stiles: _Omg no that’s not true_

Peter: _But it would be so fun to watch Scott trying to trap it with bacon._

Stiles messages Scott: _Don’t listen to Peter’s bacon idea_

Scott: _no fucking shit stiles_

Peter: _Unbelievable_.

Stiles: _Good luck with the wendigo_

No more messages come through and Stiles puts his phone away with a grin. Over the rest of the trip, he makes sure to post a few food-specific pics to Instagram, especially of focaccia and coffee. Peter doesn’t message him again, but Stiles imagines him scrolling through Stiles’ feed and smirking.

*

At graduation, Scott, Melissa, and his dad turn up and take plenty of photos. Lydia and the rest of the pack send him congratulations. Stiles is sad college is over, but the prospect of returning to Beacon Hills and starting his training for real with Deaton is exciting. He hugs his dad tightly and tries not to cry. He hugs his friends tightly and promises to stay in touch.

When he and his dad return to Beacon Hills, his stuff and a degree in tow, it’s to find Scott, Isaac and Liam trying to trap a rabid omega in the Preserve on their own. Peter, Derek and Cora have decided to spend a few months travelling around South America. Stiles helps Scott with the omega and tries not to show his disappointment.

*

He gets a job working admin at the police station. It’s keeping his options open—he can train with Deaton and learn about police work and make some money. With his first check, he pays his bills, sets aside some savings, and places bets on the outcomes of the next two elections.

*

“I don’t know, Stiles.” Lydia sounds apologetic. “I’ll make a stub page for it in the bestiary, okay? I have to go.”

Stiles thanks her and hangs up. Scott looks worried, as does the rest of the pack. Scott and Stiles look at each other, then Scott scans the rest of the pack. Everyone pointedly doesn’t look at the corner of the loft. “Any other ideas?”

Erica shifts her weight. “I still think the priest thing is our best option.”

“This isn’t _The Exorcist_,” Boyd snaps.

“Except it is!” she snaps back.

Stiles can feel Isaac’s gaze on his back. Well, specifically, what’s in Isaac. A spirit of some kind, malevolent. So far all it’s done is break up Scott and Kira—though Stiles suspects that relationship was already on its last legs—and almost break up Erica and Boyd. And try to infect the nemeton, but it failed at that. It’s almost divided the pack, and given they’re smaller in numbers right now, they can’t let that happen.

Deaton is researching. He refuses to let Stiles to examine it deeply, saying he’s still too new to magic to counteract anything the spirit does. Stiles wants to do _something_, but without more information, he doesn’t know what.

Isaac is gagged and tied to a chair with chains. He watches them huddle and discuss, eyes bright and unblinking.

Stiles steps aside as the pack starts arguing—again—about the exorcism idea. He goes to the door, pulls out his phone, and calls Peter.

The Hales are still in South America. It’s the end of summer and they’re still there. It’s been three months, not that Stiles is counting.

Peter answers the phone sleepily. “This better be good, Stiles.”

“Isaac is possessed.”

There’s a pause. “You woke me up for this?”

“Dude, what are you doing in bed? Colombia is like three hours ahead of us, it’s afternoon.”

“No, it’s siesta time.” Peter yawned. “What’s he possessed by?”

Stiles looks over at Isaac. He—it—is still watching him. “We’re not sure.”

“I hear the power of Christ has serious juju.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Be serious. Demons don’t exist.”

“Demons were creatures the church needed a cover story for.” A noise comes down the line—like sheets being moved in. “Figure out what’s in him then call me. I can’t help you if all you have is ‘Isaac’s possessed.’ For all I know he’s high on something.”

Why does Stiles like this guy again? “We need help with that too. Figuring it out. Deaton’s looking into it, but maybe you could suggest something?”

“How about spraying him with holy water?”

For fuck’s sake, they’re getting nowhere. Stiles spins around and marches over to Isaac. He pushes a protection barrier around himself and his mind, then puts his hand on Isaac’s head and focuses.

The spirit within _thrashes_. A horrible screeching fills the loft and Stiles jerks himself back. He stares at Isaac in disbelief, and the spirit in Isaac stares back greedily. It speaks but the only thing that makes it through the gag is anger.

“It’s an ancient spirit,” Stiles gasps. “_Fox_ spirit. Like a kitsune but way more evil.”

“Nogitsune,” Peter and Kira say at the same time. “Shit,” Peter adds.

“That was stupid, Stiles,” Scott says behind him.

“But now we know what it is,” he points out.

“Nogitsunes aren’t to be messed with,” Peter says. “They can’t be destroyed. Approach with caution. Don’t let it sow discord. Get it out of Isaac and trap it.”

Everyone glances at Kira, sees her and Scott look uncomfortable, and suddenly no one’s looking at them at all. Kira pulls out her phone and turns away.

Awkward.

“And how do we do that?” Stiles asks.

“Like I know? I’m not an encyclopedia.”

“But you basically are.”

Peter huffs in his ear. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult. Fine. Get Noshiko to do something about it.”

“Already asking,” Kira says loudly.

“Anything else you want from me, Stiles?” Peter asks, an edge coming into his voice.

Stiles turns to hide his sudden smile. “Nope.”

“. . . I doubt that.”

“Come back and ask again.”

Peter chuckles, then hangs up on him.

Stiles lowers his phone. Boyd is staring at him in disbelief. He spreads his hands. “What?”

Boyd makes a face then shrugs.

“Good talk, dude.”

Kira finishes talking and hangs up. “My mom’s on her way.”

In the end, two kitsunes outclass one nogitsune quite easily. Stiles fills in the stub on the bestiary, and Isaac decides to go on a sabbatical to Europe.

*

Stiles heads over to the nemeton. It’s early autumn, and while it’s California and not exactly _cold_, he still wears a hoodie. As part of his training, Deaton has him visiting the nemeton once a month. He’s supposed to be meditating or communing with it or _something_, but so far all Stiles has been able to do is sense its vast power and the ley lines that lead away from it. He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do there, so he usually sits on it for a while, practising area scanning, then pulls out his phone and plays a game until his two hours are up.

Training is cool. It’s awesome having someone actually _guide_ him and help him. Magic is like an ever-changing, twisting puzzle, and the more pieces he gathers and fits into place, the more he realises are scattered far and wide. There’s so much that’s unknown about magic.

And about time.

On this trip, he carries a quantum physics textbook. It discusses relativity and theoretical time travel, among other things. So far it’s keeping his attention, but he has to reread nearly every section to understand it.

He sits on the nemeton and reaches out with his magic. Like every time, he imagines his magic saying hi to the nemeton. So far the nemeton hasn’t answered, it's just _been_.

He pushes and pulls his magic until he gets bored, then lets his magic relax, and opens the textbook.

One chapter later, he hears footsteps crunching through leaves behind him. He reaches out with his magic and his heart leaps into his throat. He takes a breath to calm down, then calls out, “Welcome back, Peter.”

The footsteps pause, then come closer. Peter rounds the nemeton and stops in front of Stiles. “Interesting place to study.”

“It’s quiet out here.” Stiles pauses. “Usually.”

Peter’s gaze flickers over him. “Training must be going well if you need reading material.”

Stiles leans forward. “How was South America?”

“Hot and infinitely safer than here. I regret leaving.” Peter tilts his head. “Did you miss me?”

“Nope.”

Peter grins. “A lie. Stiles, I’m flattered.”

“I missed Derek and Cora too.”

The grin fades. “I’m less flattered now.”

Stiles slaps his book shut. “You shouldn’t be. Are Derek and Cora at the loft?”

“Derek is. Cora stayed behind.” Peter glances around the Preserve, his expression carefully disappointed. “I cannot believe I’m back here. _Here_. Quaint, wretched, haunted little Beacon Hills.”

“It’s not so bad.” Stiles slides himself forward and off the nemeton.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Please, Stiles. Living here is a vicious cycle of staving off boredom and trying not to die.”

Stiles exaggerates a scan around the nemeton. “Yup, definitely close to death right now.”

“Which means we’re in the boredom phase.” Peter steps closer. “It’s awful.”

So much drama. _Such_ a whinypants. Whinywolf. “You need entertainment, Peter?”

“How kind of you to offer.” His eyes are so so blue and Stiles has _missed_ them. “You have some ideas, Stiles?”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry, but he still manages to say, “How about drinks?”

“Drinks?” Peter steps even closer. “I believe I was promised food.”

“Greedy. Fine. Drinks and dinner?”

Peter smirks. “I’d be delighted.”


	30. Chapter 30

Peter likes good food, so naturally Stiles decides on the best pizzeria in Beacon Hills. It isn’t the high-end Italian restaurant or the most expensive pizzeria or even a mid-range fusion restaurant, no; it’s Gino’s, the Italian diner that’s a half hour drive and four other pizza places away from Stiles’ place. It’s a Stilinski celebration venue of choice, and the pizza is hands-down _the best_ in Beacon Hills. And sure it’s a mom-and-pop place that has squeaky plastic chairs and tables, and a jukebox with a repertoire that hasn’t been updated since 1972, and an interior aesthetic that hasn’t seen a decorator since 1983, but the pizza there? _Bellissimo._

Peter’s face when Stiles pulls into the parking lot is worth a thousand pictures and Stiles can’t help cracking up.

“Gino’s?” Peter says.

“Yup.”

“I think the last time I came here I was in my teens.” He sniffs. “Smells the same way it did in my teens. Interesting choice.”

Stiles grins at him. “You’ll see. Best pizza ever.”

Peter pulls a face but gets out of the Jeep without saying anything else. Stiles locks the Jeep and tries not to feel self-conscious.

He went home and changed before picking Peter up, and after trying on all the shirts in his closet and getting mad at himself for not having better fashion sense, he’d settled on a button-up shirt, a gentle touch of gel through his hair, and the nicest light jacket he has that isn’t too formal. Peter’s wearing a grey Henley, leather jacket, and jeans, and looks like sin on legs, and god Stiles has totally overthought everything about this. It’s not like he tried much—at all—for their first date . . . uh, _will_ try for their first date. In the future. Maybe he shouldn’t be trying for this. Only this time he _wants_ the date and he _wants_ to impress Peter and _argh_—

This is weird and he’s definitely thinking too much about it.

He takes a deep breath, tells himself to let it go, and follows Peter into Gino’s. They settle at a table and start looking over the menus. Peter quirks a smile and slaps his menu down, decision apparently made, while Stiles agonises over the Quattro Stagioni or the Diavola. “I can’t decide,” he says eventually.

Peter pulls a quarter of his pocket and holds it in his palm, then puts both hands behind his back—making his pecs stand out even more than they already do in his Henley—and brings two fists forward. “A or B?”

Stiles taps the A fist and Peter reveals the quarter. “A it is. What are you ordering?”

“Quattro Stagioni.”

“A classic. Just like this place.” Peter pockets the quarter. “Why here?”

“Because the pizzas _are the best_.”

Peter shakes his head. “No. I mean, why Beacon Hills? I can’t believe you chose to stay here after college. How anyone from the pack can willingly stay here is beyond me.”

“I could say the same thing about you. Don’t you do law? Couldn’t you practise somewhere more . . .” Stiles gestures at him “. . . you?”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “I don’t believe I’ve ever told you that.”

He did though—oh, shit, in _Maine_. Twelve years from now. Stiles waves at a waiter. “I think Derek mentioned it?”

“Uh-huh.” There’s a short pause. “But you’re right. I’d have to qualify again, but I could get back into it.” Peter shrugs. “I’ve thought about it. Trouble keeps cropping up while I think about it. In the meantime, I’m hardly hurting for money and my darling nephew needs all the help he can get.” His gaze turns piercing. “You didn’t say why you decided to stay. You could do a lot better than Beacon Hills.”

That makes Stiles feel strangely proud. “I know. But what I want to do is here.” He’s talking about studying magic, but he can’t seem to stop gazing at Peter’s mouth.

The waiter comes over and they place their order. Peter orders a Napoli, which involves anchovies, capers, and olives. It does give Stiles a moment of _why this one_, but then Peter shrugs off his jacket and reveals his biceps and Stiles’ mind goes reassuringly blank.

Peter sits back in his chair, arms and shoulders wide. “What you want to do is here, of all places? Really? Magic practitioners exist elsewhere. And while I doubt there’s a Hogwarts of emissaries, there must be people better suited to train you. Given how helpful Deaton tends _not_ to be, I’m astounded he knows anything useful to impart to you.”

“Hey!” Stiles reaches over and pokes him in the arm. “You don’t fuck around with magic. He’s just careful. You know how this pack goes overboard.”

“Careful is one way of putting it, but you’re not wrong about the pack.” Peter’s eyes narrow. “Still. You do seem to be . . . It was very interesting how you knew it was me behind you earlier, at the nemeton.”

Stiles shrugs. “What can I say? I’m gifted.”

“You’re something all right.”

Drinks are deposited on their table—non-alcoholic, both of them, because Stiles is driving and Peter isn’t interested in any of the wine on offer—and Stiles fumbles the glass, lemonade sloshing over the rim and splashing the table. He immediately licks it off his hand, then blushes and reaches for a napkin. Peter doesn’t seem to mind, just watches him evenly.

“What else can you do?” he asks.

Stiles glances around the restaurant, then pushes Peter’s glass of soda water closer to him with magic. Peter blinks. “And?”

“That’s all you get for now. Call it a preview.”

“I know you can do more than that.”

Stiles thinks of sucking a man’s life force out of him with the blink of an eye and forces a smile; he can tell it looks strange by the way Peter’s eyebrow quirks. “Spoilers, Peter.”

Peter sighs heavily. “Fine.”

Stiles wipes his hand and the table, noticing how Peter’s eyes flicker to his fingers. He deliberately licks lemonade off one. “How was Colombia?”

Peter smirks but dives into stories about the Hale trip through South America. Their pizzas arrive in the middle of a story about losing Derek in the middle of a rainforest trek, and Stiles bites into his happily as Peter describes howling for his nephew and hearing something that wasn’t Derek howling back.

“Omigod,” he gasps, then immediately chokes on a mushroom.

Peter reaches over and pats his back while Stiles coughs it up. So embarrassing, jesus. Stiles sips some lemonade in an effort to recover, and Peter picks up one slice of his Napoli with a chuckle. “The story isn’t worth dying for, Stiles, it turned out to be a howler monkey.” He bites into the slice, then stills. He chews carefully, eyes wide.

Stiles sits up. “Told you they served good pizza here.”

Peter stares at his slice. “Holy mother of god. How did I forget _this_?” He takes another huge bite and closes his eyes as he chews. Stiles watches him, grinning, because right there, that’s an expression he recognises and it’s honestly kind of amazing he gets to see it again. Even if it’s over pizza.

Then he realises he’s staring at Peter like a weirdo and keeps going on his normal tasty pizza. Four toppings in one; it can’t be beat.

Despite being a klutz, this is exactly what Stiles hoped for. The pizza is good. The ambience is awesome. They don’t stop talking. Peter waxes lyrical about the nature and history of the places he visited in South America, Stiles vents about some office politics, and they gossip about Erica and Boyd and when they’ll tie the knot. It’s a little strange to be on an actual date—a _date_, a proper, planned _date_—with Peter, but Stiles is happy. He gets to be with him and it seems like Peter’s enjoying himself too. He’s acting _human_.

At one point Stiles leans back and eyes the jukebox. Someone has put five Donny Osmond songs on in a row and the situation needs to be rectified. He’s not looking for a Salt and Pepper Diner experience tonight.

“The boy-next-door vibes aren’t doing it for you?” Peter quips.

“No.” Stiles eyes the leather jacket that Peter’s thrown over the back of his chair. “Not my taste.” He gets up and heads over to the jukebox. Three plays for a quarter, which is absurd. He flicks through the choices then slides in his quarter and selects. Gentle guitar notes play as he returns to their table, then the Kinks launch into _Lola_ and Stiles hums along as he sits back down.

Peter is smirking at him and Stiles raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“You’ve surprised me,” Peter says.

“Uh-huh. That’s not difficult, Peter.”

“Maybe not for you.” Peter rests his cheek on his fist then gestures at Stiles’ body. “I didn’t know you went outside without a hoodie.”

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up. “I didn’t know you owned things without V-necks.”

“What, this old thing?” Peter pinches it away from his body, outlining a toned pec on the other side of his chest. Stiles swallows. Peter lets go with a smirk. “I just threw it on, you know how it goes.”

“You look good.”

Peter focuses those blue, blue eyes on him. “So do you.”

Stiles smiles, pleased, then hides it behind his hand.

Peter shifts his weight and he glances aside. “I can’t say I ever expected to be in this situation with you. Not seriously.” The fingers of one hand tap in time with the melody.

“You knew I was attracted to you.”

“Yes, but so many people are.” Peter says it like it’s a burden.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “We have a . . . rapport.”

One side of Peter’s mouth quirks upwards. “I would say we have an understanding. Sometimes I think you’re the only other person who really sees just how ridiculous this pack is at times.”

“Not the only one.”

“True, Lydia is excellent at reading people and situations. As evidenced by her choosing to study on the literal other side of the country. Difficult to solve everyone’s problems but easy to focus on your own life.” Peter shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but I genuinely miss her insights.”

Stiles has kept in touch. Lydia’s deep into law studies but has had a few run-ins with supernatural things on the east coast. Being a banshee doesn’t exactly switch off. He’s going to visit her in the spring and he can’t wait.

“Me too. Doubt she misses you though.”

“Irrelevant. You and her are the reason this pack hasn’t died in multiple atrocious ways.” Peter’s eyes narrow. “The fact Derek or Scott didn’t turn you is truly appalling.”

“You haven’t either,” Stiles points out.

“I wish I had. You’d be a magnificent werewolf.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m a magnificent human.”

Peter laughs. “Yes. Not to be underestimated.”

“You underestimate me all the time!”

“No, Stiles. I make fun of you. The rest of them underestimate you, but I definitely don’t.”

Stiles ignores the flush of heat that sends through him. “You’re intelligent too. You know things that none of us could know, pack things.” Stiles gestures at him. “You’ve helped the pack as much as any of us. Drop that whole attitude thing you do and it would be easier to convince the others to trust you.”

Peter leans back. “Hm. Nope.”

“It would make your life easier.”

“I don’t need my life to be easy. I just need to keep those I care about alive, and so far that’s happened.” Peter’s eyes flash, just briefly. “Besides, you like the attitude.”

God help him, he actually does.

_Gimme Shelter_ comes on next and Peter’s face lights up. He looks like he’s about to dance but stays in his chair.

They chat through that and _Maggie May_, then Peter chooses several old Bee Gees songs and some Elvia Presley and before they know it, they’re being kicked out for being at the table too long (and probably singing too loudly).

Stiles is buzzed as he drives Peter home. Tonight doesn’t have any plans beyond getting Peter in front of him with food, but the night’s been . . . right. Different, especially after seeing a more open Peter in the future, but still good. He’d seen Peter enjoy food again. He knows some of the tunes he likes. Stiles honestly feels on top of the world right now.

Peter’s apartment is a few blocks from Derek’s loft, but unlike the loft, Stiles has only been in a few times. He doesn’t expect to go up tonight—something about never putting out on the first date and he doesn’t want to push this fledgling thing between them anyway—but he’s got high hopes for the next few dates.

He parks at the side of the street and glances over at Peter. “Tonight was awesome.”

Peter is languid as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Agreed. We’ll have to repeat it.” There’s a small pause. “It’s still a little surreal.”

“What?”

“That you actually want to do this. After all this time.” The light is crap and Peter’s face is half in shadow. “The way you looked at me tonight . . .”

Before Stiles can think twice, he reaches over and curls his fingers against Peter’s jaw. The light stubble there tickles, and the warmth of Peter’s skin seems to pulse through Stiles’ hand and up his arm. He skims down to Peter’s chin, resting his fingertips there lightly. The tip of his thumb brushes Peter’s bottom lip. Peter’s eyes glow faintly.

He’s warm and alive and _here_. “You’re not as untouchable as you think you are.” Stiles can’t stop staring. “I don’t want to just look.”

Peter gazes back at him, face unreadable, then takes Stiles’ hand in his. “Definitely not to be underestimated. I’ll choose the next place. Good night, Stiles.”

There’s a twining of fingers before he lets go and Stiles pulls back. “Good night.”

When Peter shuts the door behind him, Stiles collapses back in his seat and exhales slowly. Sweet. Awesome. He’s fine. He’s _totally_ fine.

**Facts; a complete list by Stiles Stilinski, continued**

15\. He’s not fine.  
16\. He’s so amped up and can’t stop thinking about Peter Hale in a fucking Henley and this isn’t as much of a problem as it could be.  
17\. There is no way Peter’s going to die, not on his watch.  
18\. He and Peter are officially dating. Right? Right.


	31. Chapter 31

Naturally a pack of ghouls start haunting the cemetery the next day, and it takes everyone several days to fully flush them out. Stiles stays up late researching at home then watches the wolves run around the cemetery with salt and tasers. Both knock the ghouls out so they can be decapitated, and Stiles is actually quite happy not to be involved for once. It’s gruesome work. Peter stands with him at the entrance of the cemetery and watches Derek, Scott, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac sprint around, swiping and roaring.

“You don’t want in on that action?” Stiles asks, as Erica tases a ghoul to the ground then pounces on it and rips its head off, absurd glee on her face.

Peter grimaces. “Just had my nails done. Too early to wreck a good manicure.”

“Ah, of course.” Again Stiles can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He tries to glance at his hands surreptitiously.

“Plus I get to keep the squishy human safe.” Peter grins toothily.

Stiles bares his teeth back. “Lucky you.”

“Not that the others are aware of just how not-squishy you’re becoming.”

“I’m still squishy!” Stiles gestures at the ghoul Derek is currently grappling. “In a fight versus me and that thing, I’m totally the one who’ll end up as dinner.”

Peter makes a thoughtful noise. “Not so sure about that.”

“You don’t know shit, you can’t be sure of anything.”

“You’ve been working with Deaton for months. Since before graduation at least.”

Stiles wonders how he found that out. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t mentioned just how long training’s been going on for.

“And yet you haven’t said a word to anyone else.” Peter inclines his head at Scott, who’s currently being thrown four feet in the air by a particularly wound-up ghoul. “Not even him.”

Stiles shrugs. “Nothing to say yet.”

“You’re powerful enough I can smell it on you. That’s something.”

Scott lands with several crunches and a roar of pain. Within seconds he’s back on his feet and lunging at the ghoul.

“Go Scotty!” Stiles yells. Scott gives him a thumbs-up from on top of the ghoul’s chest.

Unfortunately that’s drawn attention to them and several ghouls start lumbering towards them. Peter sighs heavily.

Stiles holds up the largest saltshaker Beacon Hills’ Walmart has to offer. “I’ll salt, you twist their heads off?”

“Can’t you just blast them?”

Hm. He isn’t sure, actually. He hasn’t had much interactions with undead creatures. Stiles eyes the nearest one and reaches for its energy. The energy fuelling it isn’t exactly _life_—some of it is, but most of it is a strange energy he can manipulate. He concentrates, _pulls_, and the ghoul collapses into a cloud of dust.

The energy doesn’t join his. In fact, it twitches and jumps and seems to dissolve under Stiles’ control. He grits his teeth in concentration.

Peter stares, first at the settling dust, then at Stiles. “What the . . .”

It’s disappearing fast, like sand through his fingertips. He uses it to form thin blades and aims them at the necks of the other ghouls currently narrowing in on them. The blades disintegrate as they slice through the ghouls, leaving them moving in with minor cuts to their necks. And now Stiles feels the tiredness that usually comes after using too much magic.

“Weird,” he says.

Peter is, for once, visibly confused. “Jesus, Stiles, you can make them _literally_ _disappear._ Don’t stop because you think it’s _weird_.”

Stiles tries again with another ghoul, but this time he lets its energy go. It dissipates into the air with a few alarming sparks. Very strange. But there’s no unreleased wild magic, so he does it to the other ghouls now alarmingly close to them.

Then he slumps against the Jeep, tired to the bone. Peter pulls one arm around his shoulders and helps Stiles to stay upright. Stiles feels drained and dizzy, but he still appreciates the raw strength supporting him. He closes his eyes and lets his head rest against Peter’s.

“Dun think I shou’ mess aroun’ wi’ undead thins,” Stiles slurs into Peter’s neck.

Peter shifts his weight under him. “Perhaps not, but it was incredible to watch.”

“Feel bad.”

“You saved us.”

Stiles snorts. “Saved y’r _manicure_.”

“My manicure is grateful. My hands live to be beautiful for another day.”

“Y’r hands’r always boot’ful.”

Peter huffs. “Finally, someone appreciates me. Can you stand? The others are nearly done.”

Stiles breathes in. “Y’smell good.”

“Hm. Maybe you should lie down and rest.”

“Myeah.”

Peter starts bundling Stiles into the Jeep, and Stiles lets him because wow he’s really exhausted now. Never play with undead energy. Bad idea. He’s placed in the passenger seat, Peter making sure he’s upright and stable. Stiles watches him, liking how close they are to each other, how many details about Peter he can see from this distance. It amazes him all over again just how gorgeous he is.

“Have you done that before?” Peter asks quietly, hands on Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles blinks at him. “Poof a ghoul wi’ magic? No.” He makes a face. “Bad idea.”

Peter tilts his head thoughtfully. “Could you do that to people?”

Well, _that’s_ a question Stiles doesn’t want to answer any time soon. He reaches out and touches Peter’s shirt, fingers catching on the collar of today’s v-neck. “Wens our nex date?”

“Stiles.”

Stiles meets his gaze. There’s a long moment of quiet. Stiles battles to keep his eyes open and his hand on Peter’s shirt. He eventually drops his hand to his lap and closes his eyes. “Whad_yu_ think?”

“I think yes.” When Peter speaks next, his voice is right next to Stiles’ ear, making him jump. “I think you’re more dangerous than the rest of us put together. Am I wrong?”

The thing is, Peter could claw his throat open right now and Stiles wouldn’t be able to stop it. Sure he could hurt Peter too, but his reactions would be slow. He’s not watching, because Peter has no reason to hurt him. And even though Peter’s reached the obvious conclusion frighteningly quickly, he’s still wrong. No one is invincible.

Stiles opens his eyes to find Peter’s face right in front of him. “Yup.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “Hm.” One hand rises to Stiles’ face and fingers run along his jaw. Stiles keeps looking at Peter’s face, watching neon blue rim the edges of his irises. Fingers brush Stiles’ lips. “Your eyes are the most remarkable shade of brown. Almost honey-like. Have I told you that?”

Stiles swallows before saying, “No.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Stiles drowning in a sea of aching want.

Peter smiles then presses his mouth against the corner of Stiles’. It’s quick, too quick, and Stiles finds the energy to claw at Peter’s shoulder, then his neck, and hold on for dear life. Peter’s eyes glow faintly and Stiles stares at him in frustrated, exhausted anger.

“You free Friday?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Peter! Stiles!” Derek bounds up behind Peter. “We’re done—what’s wrong with him?”

Peter straightens and turns around. “He’s tired. As am I, actually. How long does it take to clear out one measly graveyard?”

The eyebrows descend. “Maybe it would’ve been _quicker_ if _someone_ had _helped._”

Stiles closes his eyes again while they bicker and falls asleep. When he wakes up, it’s morning, he’s in his own bed, he’s late for work, and there’s a text from Peter asking him if he likes Thai food.

*

Stiles wears his second-tightest pairs of jeans and the slightest hint of eyeliner. It gets him a raised eyebrow and a hand in the small of his back on the way into the restaurant.

They fight over spring rolls, the last portion of sticky rice, exactly how lethal Stiles is now.

Peter presses his ankle against Stiles’ throughout dinner.

Stiles knows his hope and want has to be shining out from every pore, but it doesn’t seem to put Peter off.

They take the scenic route back to Peter’s car. Peter jokes about his jeans, then his hands are on Stiles’ hips, thumbs creeping over the waistband to brush against skin, and Stiles is backed up against the car and is being kissed and it’s everything. He winds his arms around Peter’s neck and lets himself get lost in their mouths, his warmth, the joy of having this again.

When Peter drops him back home, he kisses him again, and Stiles giddily allows that it’s _a start_.

*

Halloween passes. Stiles conjures fire, sits and studies on the nemeton, and moves on from the concept of time in physics—he’s lost, he’s well and truly lost, no one knows anything, least of all him—to the concept of time in philosophy.

*

Stiles spills coffee over himself and almost has a conniption when Peter licks his hand in the middle of the shop. One restaurant feeds them both bad salad which has Peter puking for a couple of hours and Stiles for a couple of days. When he emerges from his house, it’s to find Peter somehow had the place shut down. Stiles recommends him TV shows and video games, and Peter passes on them in favour of literature and documentaries. They see movies and end up making out in the theatre, which Peter can’t seem to get over for some reason. Stiles tries to make Peter pasta but burns it. Peter makes pumpkin bread and when Stiles tries it, he immediately wants to propose, because it is _that_ good.

Their dates are nice highlights between the supernatural nasties that continue coming to town.

*

Lydia comes back for Thanksgiving. She’s chirpy but buried under work for her law degree. She still joins them when they discover a haunted mirror in Beacon Hills’ largest department store. Though she doesn’t say anything, Stiles notices the glances she throws at him.

He and his dad celebrate with the McCalls. At the end of the night, Stiles makes a pot of hot chocolate—from scratch, using dark chocolate, creamy milk, vanilla beans, sugar, a pinch of salt, and a sprinkle of chilli—and brings a thermos of it to Peter.

When Peter opens the door and sees him standing there with a thermos, his nostrils flare. “Is that _hot chocolate_?”

Stiles hands it over. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Peter looks at the thermos then back at Stiles. “You came all this way just to give me hot chocolate?”

It’s hardly _all this way_, it’s only downtown Beacon Hills. Stiles leans against the doorframe and smirks. “It’s good hot chocolate. I know—figured you’d like it.”

Peter looks unconvinced. “That wasn’t a euphemism.” He opens the lid and takes a sip, his eyes fluttering closed. “Oh.”

“I couldn’t put marshmallows in there though.”

“Be quiet, I’m having a moment.”

Stiles grins, waits a beat, then leans in and kisses him. Peter kisses him back, then breathes in deeply. “You smell like chocolate and family.” His hand skims up Stiles’ waist to his chest. “And McCall.” He pushes him away gently with an amused huff. “Your services are no longer required now that this is here.”

Stiles rolls his eyes but takes a step back. “You’re welcome, Peter.”

Peter is taking another sip and waves him away, then closes the door. Stiles turns, then spins when he hears the door open again. Peter pokes his head out and says, “You don’t need an excuse to bring me hot chocolate.”

“Just hot chocolate?”

Peter narrows his eyes. “I’ll consider other offerings. Make them good.”

Stiles returns to his car, his smile hurting his face.


	32. Chapter 32

When Thanksgiving is over, Stiles drives Lydia to the airport. They chat about Christmas and what they’re doing over the coming weeks, what presents they’re getting people, and what’s stressing them out. Lydia has a crazy workload and she can’t wait for the upcoming break. “I’ve never looked forward to Christmas this much before,” she sighs at one point. “I can’t believe I’m okay about coming back here.”

“Back to Beacon Hills?” Stiles glances at her. “It’s not so bad.”

Her glare is hot on his face. “It really is, Stiles. Being away from it is so freeing.”

“Freeing?”

“It’s nice not being the local area’s supernatural tuning fork, you know? It happens way less in Boston. Go figure.”

“You don’t miss the pack?”

There’s enough of a pause that his stomach sinks. “I miss the people, of course. But I don’t miss the pack. I don’t know . . . maybe banshees feel things differently. I don’t know that the pack bonds ever affected me as much as the wolves.” She clears her throat. “Anyway. It’s good to remember what normal, danger-free life is like. The east coast possibly isn’t far _enough_. I highly recommend leaving.” There’s a pause, then she asks, “Why _are_ you still there? You of all people could get work doing nearly anything anywhere.”

“Aw, thanks, Lyds. I didn’t realise you cared.”

She whacks his shoulder. “Seriously though.”

He hums. “Let’s say I’m not ready to move yet. I will though. One day.”

“Uh-huh. You better.” Her next sentence is notably casual. “Are you seeing someone?”

Oh no. “What makes you ask that?”

“Dodging the question basically confirms it.” He can hear her smile in her voice. “I knew it. You’ve been suspiciously happy lately. So you’re staying for a special someone.”

“I’m also staying for me, Lydia.” He side-eyes her. “Also—‘suspiciously’ happy? What? Am I not allowed to be happy?”

“I haven’t forgotten what you promised me at the start of this year. You’re stacking up the secrets, Stilinski.”

He shakes his head. “You’re going into the right career path. Hey, how about a topic change! Do you think time travel is possible?”

He thinks she rolls her eyes but her voice is warm. “Yeah I do.”

“Whoa, really?”

“Smarter people than me think it is. We just haven’t figured out how to do it.”

He acts shocked. “There are people smarter than you?”

“Oh my god, Stiles. You asked the question, what do you think?”

He nods. “According to Einstein it’s based on the balance between light, mass, and distance. Time is just a by-product of perception.”

“It’s one way of measuring perception. I like the example of the stars—the light we see from them is actually how those stars were thousands of years ago. When we look at the sun, what we’re actually seeing is what it looked like eight minutes ago.”

“Eight minutes and twenty seconds to be precise.”

“Then there’s the theory that our limited human senses only perceive so many facets of reality, and time is one that we can only grasp in the most basic way. That in fact all things exist in all states at all times, but we can only perceive one face of events, or one state. I think time travel is possible, but we don’t have the physical capacity to pull it off.”

“What if we could transcend our bodies?”

“Hm.” She thinks for a few moments. “As in, our consciousness could separate from our physical bodies?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“There’s limited evidence of souls having some kind of physical or energetic matter, you know that right?”

He laughs. “I’m not talking about souls. I’m talking about . . . I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”

“Life energy? Something that stays coherently _you_ despite removal from your body? If we’re going that far into theory, we can’t assume anything else. Maybe you would be able to time travel. Maybe you’d be able to travel dimensions. Maybe you’d disintegrate back into the energy of the world and universe.” She makes a thoughtful noise. “Sounds like magic.”

His stomach twists. “Yeah. Yeah it does.”

“None of the laws of physics explains magic, but we know for a fact that exists. Stiles”—her voice has turned excited—“do you think Deaton would know anything about druids or spellcasters time travelling?”

Stiles tries to sound normal. “He probably does. Would he tell us though? Unlikely.”

“Oh my god I want to study this. But I have so much _reading _to do already.” She drags one hand through her hair. “Argh. I’ll figure something out. This could be so interesting.”

This feels like a mistake. Holy god. What has he done? “I didn’t want a new magical law, Lydia, just your opinion.”

“Okay. My opinion is that you’re wasted in Beacon Hills.” Their gazes meet, then they crack up. She shoulder bumps him. “Seriously though, the person you’re staying for better appreciate you.”

He raises his hands in supplication to the car roof. “Lydia, I’m staying _for me_.”

“Uh-huh. Tell yourself that. And don’t keep it secret for too long.” Her eyes are lit up with glee. “Curious minds want to know. And if you don’t tell me, I’ll pull it out of Erica.”

“Erica doesn’t know.”

Lydia snorts. “Yeah, and how long do you think that will last?”

He’s not sure.

He considers it on the way back from the airport. He’s happy keeping his and Peter’s relationship under wraps for now; he likes the new connection they’re building. Every time he sees Peter, he feels like he sees new details and his understanding gets deeper and deeper. Peter has hardly mentioned any of the darker stuff from his past—the fire, the coma, Kate, his period of furious, revenge-fuelled insanity—but Stiles is okay with that. He knows Peter’s past it and Peter seems content to let it lie. They’re in their own little bubble and it’s good. So no, he doesn’t want to disturb what they have and he doesn’t particularly want the pack to poke their noses in. Peter seems happy not saying anything.

But Lydia is right. The pack will find out sooner or later.

He decides to worry about it later and drives straight to Peter’s place. It’s only been a few days since he brought over the hot chocolate, but this conversation with Lydia has brought back the Incident and makes him want to see and touch Peter.

Peter opens the door and Stiles hesitates long enough to say, “Look, can I just—” then dives in for a hug. He pushes his face into Peter’s shoulder and tries not to be too obvious about enjoying just how firm Peter’s body is.

Strong arms come up around him. “You don’t smell upset. What’s this for?”

Stiles shrugs. “Wanted to.” He isn’t sure why he wants him, but he does. He _does._

Those arms tighten. “Got it.” Stiles is abruptly lifted up and pushed against the wall. Peter closes the door then starts kissing him fiercely. He lets out a throaty growl. “You _do_ smell like Lydia.”

Stiles grins obnoxiously. “Hey, baby, I’m all yours, you know that, don’t be mad.”

Peter shudders. “Oh god. Get out if you’re going to talk like that.”

Stiles grins at him as he works his hands under Peter’s shirt. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “It’s been two days, Stiles.”

“Yeah. Two whole days.” Stiles kisses the line of Peter’s jaw.

Peter lifts his jaw to give him more space, but there’s a strong thoughtful vibes. “Two days and one conversation with Lydia. What did you talk about?”

“Work. Thanksgiving. Christmas. The physics of time travel.”

“Ah. Of course.” Peter sounds puzzled, but Stiles finds a certain point on his ear that makes him growl deep in his throat. Peter loosens him slightly, enough so they’re face-to-face again. Peter smirks. “I said you could come over with offerings. So where’s my offering?”

Maybe he should’ve brought cake, but knowing Peter, it would have to be something fancy from a French bakery. Stiles honestly didn’t think about it. He barely thinks now as he pulls off his hoodie and shirt. “Here.”

Peter’s hands are warm at his waist. “What.”

“An offering.”

“Yourself?”

Stiles decides to go for broke. “I’m one-of-a-kind, a rare Stilinski original, only minor flaws and cracks. Buy now and pay in instalments, interest-free.”

Peter doesn’t say anything but his gaze grows heated as he scans down Stiles’ body. His pupils might even dilate slightly. Stiles can’t tell how he knows what Peter will do, but when his hands trail down Stiles’ legs to his ass, Stiles jumps up and wraps his legs around Peter’s waist, held by hands that feel like steel on his thighs. He holds him tight and kisses him.

Peter snickers. “Offering accepted.” He starts walking, and the next thing Stiles knows he’s tumbled onto the sofa. Peter crawls over him predatorily, sending Stiles’ heartbeat and libido through the roof. He pulls him down into a kiss and grinds up against him shamelessly, he tugs at Peter’s shirt, at his belt, at his waistband; he passes his palms over as much skin as he can reach but it’s not enough, he can’t seem to touch him _enough_, and he knows he’s being greedy and demanding, but somehow it doesn’t matter.

Peter’s hands and mouth are warm, neon seeps into his irises, and minute prickles of claw tinge each caress of Stiles’ skin. Stiles reaches down and pulls Peter’s dick out of his jeans, stroking him firmly, trying to stroke them both as quickly as possible. It’s fast and heavy, and Peter can’t seem to stop groaning against his collarbone, and Stiles wants nothing more than to see him come. He pulls Peter’s face up to his and kisses him as an excuse to watch him. There’s a hint of fang when Peter grins at him, then he’s coming, hot and slippery in Stiles’ hand. Stiles follows directly afterwards, mind whiting out in a buzz of lust and release.

He comes to with Peter still lying on him, thumb running lightly across Stiles’ shoulder and up the line of his throat, then back down. Stiles touches his back, then realises he’s just spread spunk over Peter’s skin. Oh well. He continues stroking him.

Peter grimaces. “Stiles.”

“Get me something then.”

Peter reaches down then hands him his shirt. Stiles wipes his hand, then their bodies, and Peter settles back on him, face against his shoulder.

“That was awesome. We should do that again, like, right now.” Stiles is full of syrupy languid happiness. He runs his fingertips over the notches in Peter’s spine, then traces the lines of muscle around his shoulder blades.

“No complaints here.” Peter’s voice has turned husky. “This doesn’t get you out of bringing something next time.”

Stiles laughs. “Got it. You just want me for my hot chocolate.”

“Rats, you’ve seen through my dastardly plans again.” Peter nips him. “Try cinnamon or mint instead of chilli next time.”

“You liked the chilli.”

“Yes, but variety is the spice of life.”

“I’m going to bring you Walmart cupcakes.”

Peter yawns. “Consider yourself dumped if you do.”

Affection washes over him. “You have expensive tastes.”

“It’s worked out well for me so far. It’s got me a rare, one-of-a-kind Stilinski.” Peter raises his head and looks Stiles in the eye. “You smell much better now.”

Stiles isn’t sure if he means emotionally. He does feel more settled, more relaxed now. Being able to be with Peter like this, to see and feel him warm and alive and present, it’s somehow deeply reassuring. But they didn’t mention that at the start of the conversation and he’s not going to bring it up now.

“Like you, you mean.” That gets him a toothy, satisfied smile. “You better have an excuse for the others when they smell us.”

“If they haven’t noticed us spending time together by now, they won’t notice this.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “Dude, there’s a difference in smells between hanging out fully clothed and _semen_.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “How would _you_ know, human?”

“How about _logic_.”

“You’re missing one vital piece of information.” Peter’s fingers start running down Stiles’ sides. “The pack is full of self-obsessed idiots. They won’t notice anything unless we make it obvious.”

Stiles is hard again. “I’m not known for subtlety, Peter. They’ll know by Christmas.”

“Easter.”

“That’s like half a year away!” Stiles grins at him. “I’ll bet you a fancy cake that they’ll find out by Christmas.”

Peter starts kissing the side of his neck. “You’re on.”


	33. Chapter 33

_Derek_

It’s late at night, in Derek’s loft, a few weeks before Christmas. There’s something in the lake near the Preserve, something that likes the taste of human a little too much. Most of the pack are trying to get a visual, research is ongoing but largely done, Derek’s gone out for food, and Peter and Stiles are alone.

Stiles leans back, pen between his teeth, and glances over at Peter. He’s intent on his laptop and Stiles is 99% sure he’s not researching water-based creatures. Too many clicks. It’s probably a quiz. _Order a vegan feast and we’ll tell you your best quality._ (Like Peter would eat vegan, and his best quality is his eyes. Or his wit. Or maybe his dick.)

Stiles shuffles his foot into Peter’s. He doesn’t react. Stiles taps it gently, then inches his foot over Peter’s and hooks it around his ankle.

“That isn’t as sexy as you think it is,” Peter says absently.

“It’s not meant to be.” Stiles tugs his foot forward, bringing Peter’s leg closer to him. He runs his foot up the side of Peter’s calf—clumsily because he’s still wearing shoes—then when Peter doesn’t even look at him, kicks his knee.

It’s only a _light_ kick.

It definitely doesn’t warrant Peter flashing his eyes at him, then lunging over the table and knocking them both to the floor.

Stiles’ head is cushioned by something, but his entire back aches from its now too-intimate relationship with Derek’s concrete floor. Peter lies on him, one arm braced at his side. Stiles shoves at one solid shoulder. “Jesus, Peter.”

Peter glares at him. “Brat. Leave my knees alone.”

Stiles grins back. And even though he’s definitely going to have bruises, he thinks that’s Peter’ hand between his head and the floor. He reaches both arms over Peter’s shoulders and wraps one leg over Peter’s. “Hi.”

“What do you want, Stiles?” Peter’s free hand is on Stiles’ waist, and it starts sliding down.

“A study break.” Stiles arches against him, lowers his eyelids, lets his grin amp up. “We’ve been working _so hard_.”

One eyebrow rises. “You think so?” His hand slips under Stiles’ shirt and presses flat against his stomach, warm skin to skin.

Stiles pushes his fingers into Peter’s hair and pulls him down, breathing, “Shhhh,” against his mouth before kissing it. Peter kisses back fiercely, one hand pressing down on Stiles’ skin while the other grips Stiles’ hair. The kiss is heavy, languid, almost luxurious, and when Peter’s tongue slips through to swoop slowly through Stiles’ mouth, he groans and hugs him in tighter.

Peter moves to Stiles’ jaw and ear, then down his neck, nipping and kissing, while Stiles digs his fingertips into Peter’s skin and drags, wanting to work him up more. Their erections rub against each other, but there’s no urgency, not yet, there’s just lips and tongue and skin and—

Peter looks up, eyes brilliant blue. “Derek just got back.”

Stiles tugs at his shoulders. “Nooooo. Come back.”

Peter runs a hand through his mussed up hair, flattening it, then gets to his knees and knocks Stiles’ leg aside. “Good, I’m starving.”

“Wow, dude. I am _right here_. Am I less interesting than food? _Really_?”

“At this very moment, yeah.” Peter’s eyes turn dark. “You can be dessert.”

Stiles sits up and glares at him. “After pouncing on me like that? Like hell.”

Peter pecks him on the mouth, then stands and offers his hand. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

He _might_ be right. Stiles lets him pull him up, then they spend a few moments smoothing clothes and hair before returning to their seats.

Derek comes in the door, Chinese food in bags and smelling incredible, and he pauses at the sight of them.

“What’s the hold up?” Stiles calls. “Don’t _wait_.”

Derek approaches warily, a strange expression on his face. He places the bags on the table and Stiles and Peter dive in. Derek watches them unpack containers then slowly asks, “Are you two . . . going out?”

Stiles chokes on a mouthful of lo mein while Peter asks calmly, “What makes you say that?”

Derek crosses his arms, the expression on his face somewhere between despairing and constipated. “The gigantic hickey on Stiles that wasn’t there forty-five minutes ago.”

Stiles glares at Peter, hoping he’s conveying something along the lines of _you gigantic asshole_.

“Plus the smell.”

Okay, he’s officially ready for a hole to open up and swallow him.

Peter is still for a moment, then he shrugs and spears a forkful of kungpao chicken. “Yes, we are.”

Derek facepalms with both hands.

Stiles is trying to read Peter, but he’s done the closed-off thing again. He’s uncomfortable. Stiles clears his throat. “Sooooo—”

“No,” Derek says through his fingers. “I don’t care about the details. Oh my _god_.”

“—am I Uncle Stiles now, or . . .?”

Peter snorts into his chicken. Derek full-on alpha stares Stiles, then turns rapidly around and leaves the loft. Peter’s laughing so hard he’s curled over his food.

Stiles flushes, pleased with himself. He gestures at himself. “Where is it?”

Peter straightens and thumbs at a spot halfway down his neck.

God, seriously? “You’re normally so discreet.” The skin is still sore and the heat remains from Peter’s touch.

“Am I?” Peter dumps half a rice container on top of his chicken, still chuckling.

“Yeah.” _Really_ discreet. This isn’t like him. Stiles glances at the door then back at Peter. “Was that deliberate?”

Peter finishes chewing before speaking. “Does that really matter? He knows now.”

Stiles thinks this means no, it wasn’t. Peter made a mistake. “You know, you could’ve just told him it wasn’t his business.”

“And miss an opportunity to mess with him?” Peter looks faintly outraged.

“Oh, of course, silly me.” Stiles turns over some of his noodles. He’s not sure himself how he feels about Derek knowing.

“If anyone in this pack has to know, it’s okay that it’s him,” Peter says.

Stiles eyes him as he forks in more lo mein. Peter doesn’t care about anyone’s opinions, or so he claims. In the future he’s more honest or open about what he cares about, but now he tends to limit everything to a snappy one-liner.

In fairness, so does Stiles.

“It’s okay, Stiles.” Peter’s giving him a strange look. Stiles wonders what kind of scent he’s giving off. “As you said, they’d find out eventually.”

“You owe me cake,” Stiles says.

Peter winks at him. “I’ll make sure it’s amazing.”

“If Derek knows, I want to tell my dad.”

Peter’s mouth twists. “I _suppose_ . . .”

“You don’t need to be there.” Stiles reaches for a prawn cracker. “And I’ll do it without traumatising him.”

_John_

It’s Christmas day. They slept in, made pancakes, called family, then opened presents. Now they’re making the world-famous Stilinski Christmas dinner while Christmas songs blare from Stiles’ laptop. Scott and Melissa are due later for dinner. Stiles drains the potatoes and checks his phone quickly. Peter hasn’t responded to his _Merry Christmas_ text. Stiles isn’t worried, just annoyed. Peter doesn’t celebrate anything like normal people. Both Hales are likely brooding in their respective homes, with Peter specifically lounging in front of a game or plotting a death. Possibly both.

“Who are they?” his dad asks.

Stiles looks over at him. “Huh?”

John nods his head at Stiles’ phone. “The person who messages you all the time and who you’ve been having dinner with.”

Stiles can feel his entire body turn hot. “You, so, uh, what?” He’s been meaning to tell him. He really has. It’s just surprisingly difficult in the moment to tell your cop dad that you’re dating a known criminal who’s killed people and likes wearing v-necks.

“Stiles.”

“_So_. Dad. You noticed that?”

“I might work a lot, but I’m not blind, Stiles.”

“Right. Yeah. Cool.” Stiles tucks his phone away and checks the potatoes are still okay in the colander. “It’s Peter Hale.”

His dad blinks at him, then chuckles. “Nice one, kiddo. No, really, who?”

Stiles picks up a potato and lets it fall back in the colander. “Peter Hale.”

There’s a weird silence.

“As in, the murderous rampaging werewolf. The one who came back from the dead. Didn’t he try to kill you several times?”

Stiles tries not to cringe. “That was years ago. And I tried to kill him too, so we’re even on that score.”

His dad facepalms.

Stiles pulls out his phone and texts: _just told dad. I think it’s going well_.

_Kira_

Peter slides the box across the table to Stiles. It can only be the cake, and Stiles almost shoves his mocha off the table as he lunges for it. Peter covers his hands on the box before he can pull it in front of him. “Calm down. It’s only a cake.”

Stiles eyes him. “It’s cake _you made for me_. Like hell I’m not going to be excited. Do you even know me?”

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “You’re an endless enigma.”

“Dick.” Stiles yanks the box in front of him and opens it. “Oh my god.” It’s incredible. Three layers, swirly chocolate ganache frosting, chocolate curls, passionfruit puddles on the top, and motherfucking chocolate and passionfruit macarons along one side. They look identical and incredible. “No way did you make this.”

“I did!”

Stiles glares at him. “You know how to bake. You. Yeah right.”

“Some of us have the ability to follow instructions.” Peter sips his coffee.

Stiles bites into a macaron and it’s heavenly. The cookie gives the slightest of resistance before dissolving into chewy mallow, and a burst of passionfruit cuts through the richness of the chocolate centre. There’s a knife in the box and he uses it to cut a wedge out of the cake. It emerges, dark and moist with chocolate, the layers sandwiched with white buttercream and more passionfruit. It looks like a goddamn treasure and Stiles barely pauses before shoving half the slice into his mouth. He chews, then stops in horror.

There’s chocolate, there’s passionfruit, but they’re overwhelmed by very very very strong bubblegum.

Oh god.

Oh god _no._

Now that it’s in his mouth and he’s taking a pause, he can _smell_ it too.

A wicked grin emerges on Peter’s face.

Stiles lunges for a napkin and spits it out, then turns on him. “You asshole! What the hell? Come _on_!”

Peter spreads his hands. “You specified fancy, not delicious.”

Stiles gestures at the cake. “This is a monstrosity. You’ve dishonoured these ingredients. I don’t even bake and I _feel_ the dishonour in my _bones_.”

Peter smirks. Argh. _Enraging_.

“If this is your idea of a prank, it sucks.” Stiles wants to scrub his tongue. “You’re better than this. Oh my _god_.”

“Oh, I can do better next time if you really want.”

Stiles glares at him. “I thought you _liked_ me.”

Peter shrugs.

Stiles maybe sees red. He cuts off a segment and holds it in front of Peter’s face. “Eat it.”

Peter crosses his arms. “Make me.”

He lunges across the table. “I’m not going to blow you for a month unless you eat it.”

Peter pointedly closes his mouth. Stiles mashes the cake into it.

“Hey guys!”

Kira’s suddenly standing next to their table. Stiles and Peter freeze, and Stiles remembers they’re in public. Oops.

Kira looks between them. “Um. Wow. You’re. Uh . . . Hi.” Peter pushes Stiles’ arm away and starts cleaning his face with a napkin, muttering darkly. Stiles sits back in his place. She gestures at the cake. “So! That cake looks incredible.”

“It tastes like crap, thanks to this joker.”

Peter looks at the dirtied napkin. “Humour is so subjective these days.”

Kira’s jaw drops. “Peter, you made this? For Stiles?”

Stiles glances at Peter, whose face is all manner of expressions, then turns to Kira. “So! What brings you to this particular coffee shop?”

She frowns. “I like their cold brew. Is that bubblegum I smell?”

Peter runs a hand over his now clean face and picks up his cup. “It is.” He and Stiles have a glare-off.

There’s an awkward pause.

“Sorry for crashing, I just thought I’d say hi, and . . .” She keeps looking between them, as if she can’t quite believe this. “Wow, seriously, you two are dating?” She slaps her forehead. “Oh man, I thought you two were acting differently, like there was always a _vibe_ there, but I totally waved it off! Seeing this, and seeing you two . . . talking . . . I mean, wow. How do I keep missing things like this?” She shakes her head. “This is totally a sign.”

Stiles isn’t sure he wants to know, but he asks anyway. “Of what?”

“Of a good time to leave.” She pulls out her wallet. “I’m going to tell everyone at the next pack meeting, but I guess while I’m here I’ll say it. I’ve been thinking I need to develop my kitsune powers and sword fighting skills, you know? See the ancestral home, get really in touch with who and what I am. I finally found a mentor in Japan. So. Yeah.”

Stiles blinks at her. “You’re _leaving_? When?”

“A couple of weeks? No time like the present, and Beacon Hills is just . . .” She shakes her head. “Crazy. I don’t know how there’s still a town here with all the stuff we’ve had to deal with. Like, I’ll totally come _back_ at some point, but I need to go, you know?”

“Makes sense,” Peter says.

She blushes. “Yeah, well, I’m excited.” An expression of panic crosses her face. “Not that you two being . . . together . . . is a _bad_ sign, uh, in case that came out wrong, uhhhh, it’s just that, um, it’s kind of out of the blue, and it’s not exactly, um . . .” Her face goes even redder. “I mean, good for you two! I actually have to get going and I still need to get coffee, but it was cool seeing you two, and I’ll see you soon, right?”

This is the worst. Stiles isn’t sure if her embarrassment is making him embarrassed or if it’s only exacerbating what he already feels. Peter seems totally fine and taps the cake box. “Take some cake if you want.”

She shakes her head but Stiles still catches the brief flash of disgust. “Oh no! I couldn’t! Thanks though! See you.” She hurries over to the cashier to order.

Peter watches after her. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but it’s not great for the pack that she’s going. She’s one of the strongest fighters we have.”

“I’m going to miss her.” Stiles will, but his brain keeps pinging back to this cake. The care, the presentation, the taste. What the hell does it all _mean_.

"Really, her leaving just emphasises her intelligence. And our relationship isn’t a bad sign apparently.” He's grinning now for some reason.

Stiles gestures at the cake. “Given _this_, I’m about to say it is. You don’t like me?”

The words hang in the air between them. Peter turns wary. “I do, actually.”

“Then why did you shrug earlier?”

Peter looks aside, fingers curling around the handle of his mug. There's a long moment before he answers. “I’m surprised at how much I do like you. I’m honestly astonished that this is going as well as it is.” His fingertips tap the mug. “In what will be shocking news to you, that’s been rare for me.”

The relief is potent. Stiles smirks through it. “You _like_ me.”

“And you, for some reason, like me.” Peter looks back at him. “I thought this was just a good time.”

“It’s been that too.”

“Hm. Now Derek and your father know. And Kira.”

Stiles nods.

Peter chuckles darkly. “You’re not worried at all. Amazing.”

“No. Worried about what? What’s freaking you out?”

Peter gives him a withering look. “I’m not freaking out.”

Stiles looks at the cake and earlier parts of their coffee date come to mind. “You’re kind of freaking out.”

Peter’s hand tightens around his mug. “I’m more _concerned_ that you, the kid who runs into everything recklessly and refused the bite from me and who distrusts everyone he doesn’t like, actually enjoy spending time with me. I’m still trying to figure out what changed.”

What changed was . . . well, Stiles obviously can’t tell him all the details, but he can share some. “I realised that when you’re not being an insane psycho hellbent on revenge, you’re actually a decent guy. You give enough shits about the pack to keep its best interests at heart and you’ve saved us so many times it’s not funny. You’re good when you want to be. And you’re fucking hot.”

As he hopes, that makes Peter grin. “You’re only human after all.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Well. Human and a bit more.”

“I think Kira was right. There was always a vibe there.” Now Stiles is tapping his mug. “I guess I realised that maybe there was more than just a vibe. And that I was hella interested to find out. And there is. So I’m in. I’m on board. I’m ensnared in your wily clutches until you throw me back into the sea.”

Peter huffs. “Metaphors aren’t your strong suit, sweetheart, but I appreciate the effort. There’s not going to be any throwing back.”

“Good. So when I tell you I hate this cake, don’t take it personally.”

“Oh no, my heart’s broken.” Peter finishes his coffee. “Give it to the pack, they’ll eat anything.”

Stiles isn’t so sure, but he’s tempted to find out. He’s pretty sure Isaac would actually _like_ it.

However, now that he’s thinking about it, the idea of bringing this beautiful yet fatally flawed cake to the next pack meeting isn’t sitting super well with him. If anything, it raises his hackles slightly. Like, yeah, it’s gross and he hates it, but it’s _his_. Peter made it for _him_, to piss _him_ off.

He pulls it forward. “Nah. I’ll keep it.” He looks Peter in the eye. “I’ll eat it all.”

Peter actually looks surprised.

*

He cuts it into slices and freezes them. Even when he admits defeat and allows his dad and friends to help, it still takes them months to finish the whole thing.


	34. Chapter 34

_Boyd_

They’re tracking down a feral omega in the Preserve, again—well, the rest of the pack is. Stiles and Boyd are hanging out in the trees near the most popular trailhead and redirecting people away from the searching area. Because it’s dusk, all that takes is strange noise from either of them, maybe some leaf kicking or branch shaking. So far they’ve scared off one couple and three hummingbirds.

Stiles beasts his level of Candy Crush and fist pumps in victory. “Yes! I’m the fucking _king_ of this game.”

“Shut up. You’ll bring that omega right on us.” Boyd’s gaze doesn’t shift from his phone.

Stiles does a brief area scan with magic then gets back to his game. “Nah, we’re good.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Cool.”

Boyd snorts.

They play in quiet for another half hour.

Boyd puts his phone down and sighs.

“I know dude. Dunno how they haven’t found it yet either.” Stiles curses when he messes up a line of raspberries.

“It’s weird without Kira,” Boyd says.

It’s the pack’s first outing without Kira and it _was_ strange making plans without her. Everyone’s happy for her, of course, but they still miss her.

“Yup.” He nails a huge shape of jelly beans and watches in glee as the candy rows drop. “Sucks. She brought class to this pack.”

Boyd doesn’t say anything, but Stiles can feel the glare on the side of his face.

“Yeah, yeah, glare all you want, you’re not denying it—shit!” Missed jelly bean opportunity.

“You calling me and my fiancée trashy, Stilinski?”

“Damn right I—” The words filter through and Stiles looks up in shock, phone falling to the ground. The sound of him failing the level rings out clearly as he gapes at Boyd. “_Fiancée_?! What? No. What?! _Seriously?_”

Boyd gives him an unimpressed look.

“I just . . . it’s so soon and unexpected!”

Somehow Boyd looks even _more_ unimpressed.

Stiles gets a message and he scoops up his phone to check.

Peter: _I can hear you two miles away. Shut up._

Oops.

“Congratulations,” Stiles says at a normal volume. He steps over and claps Boyd on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you two. You’re good together.”

Boyd actually cracks a smile. “Thanks.”

“So how did you do it? Was it romantic?” Stiles squints at him. “Wait, I can totally see Erica proposing to you, did _she_ do it?”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “I fucking proposed. And it was . . .” He trails off then looks to the side, face settling into wary concentration.

Stiles feels out with his magic—and yeah, that’s an omega werewolf heading right for them. He starts backing away right as Boyd runs in front of him. The omega leaps out of the darkness with a howl and Boyd meets it with claws ready.

Stiles forms darts with his magic and starts throwing them at the omega. He gets it distracted, letting Boyd slash and hack in true brutal Boyd form.

There’s another howl from the side and another werewolf lunges in out of the darkness. Stiles takes more steps back before realising it’s Peter.

Between the three of them they get the omega down. Peter and Boyd knock him out and step back, Stiles throws a circle of mountain ash around it and just like that, they’re done. The omega comes to as they step back. Peter and Boyd lean against trees, breathing heavily from the fight.

Stiles squints at the omega, who roars at him and starts trying to break through the mountain ash circle. “Sorry buddy,” Stiles says to him. “Not until you calm down.”

“Be honest, Stiles,” Peter says, “maybe not even then.”

Stiles heads over to him. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better.” Peter scrubs at some dried blood on his forehead, the gash which caused it long healed. Apart from dirt and a few tears in his shirt, Peter is the picture of health. “Ugh. Fighting is so messy.”

“Oh poor you, all dirty from the bad omega.”

Peter leans back and bats his eyelashes. “I’m in so much pain, it’s unbelievable. Kiss it all better?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No way.”

“But I ran two whole miles to make sure you were safe.” Peter reaches out and hooks one finger in Stiles’ shirt. He pulls and Stiles goes closer, trying hard not to smile.

“How did you know we’d be attacked?”

Peter taps Stiles’ hip. “If I heard you from that far away, I figured the omega would too.”

Well, now Stiles feels bad. Just a _little_. But it’s there. He and Boyd were meant to be out of harm’s way. “Thanks.”

“I think I’m entitled to a reward for rescuing you.”

Stiles scoffs. “_Rescuing_ us? We were doing just fine without you.”

Peter just grins then leans in to kiss him.

A strangled noise from behind them makes them pause. Ah. Yeah. They’re not alone. Stiles turns and Boyd is covering his eyes and shaking his head. “Boyd?”

Boyd peeks through his fingers. “You two are _fucking_?”

Stiles winces. “Jesus, dude, don’t say it like that.”

“Yeah, we are.” Peter rubs one hand along Stiles’ hip. “Congratulations on the engagement.”

Boyd holds up a hand. “No. No. One thing at a time. Goddamn.” He rubs at his eyes for some reason.

Stiles glances at Peter, who’s smirking. He elbows him. Peter blinks at innocently at him. “What?”

“Be nice.”

“Sweetheart, I’m _always_ nice.”

“You really aren’t.”

“Oh god, just stop.” Boyd looks up at the sky and takes a deep breath. “Is this a definite thing?”

Stiles glances at Peter. “Uh, by ‘definite thing’ you mean . . .?”

“You know, I don’t even know, man. I can’t begin to get my head around this.” Boyd looks between them. “Whatever. This makes about as much sense as the rest of the bullshit that goes down in this town. Don’t get all—” he makes a vague gesture in the air in front of him “—in front of me and I can be cool.”

Peter tuts. “That sounds just a _little_ homophobic.”

Boyd holds up a finger. “Nah. You know it’s not because you’re dudes, it’s because you’re _you_.”

See, on the one hand, Stiles knows that a year ago he’d have had the same reaction to seeing someone from the pack almost make out with Peter. Like, Peter is _Peter_. But that was a year, two extra weeks, and a ton of trauma ago; now he just gets pissed. “He’s pack, Boyd. He’s saved our asses so many times. And like you and Erica don’t practically have sex in front of us every movie night.”

“Don’t start that. You’re exaggerating. And Erica and I haven’t risen from the dead or killed members of our families.”

Peter sighs sadly. “When will people learn to let that go?”

Stiles hisses at him, “Not helping!” He turns back to Boyd. “He’s a work in progress. We all are. And he’s not the only Hale who did that, remember?”

Boyd barks out a laugh. “Derek only killed him because he was a rampaging lunatic. _You helped him_. Peter killed Laura because he wanted power.”

“Assumptions. He was crazy at the time. Maybe you’d have done the same thing in that situation.”

Stiles is abruptly pulled back as Peter steps forward. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll take it from here.” Peter goes over to Boyd. “I wanted power _and_ I was out of my mind. But that’s my family and my issue, not his. He’s past it. What’s your point?”

Boyd glares. “Stilinski can do a lot better than you.”

Peter cracks into a wide grin. “At last, something we agree on. Yes. However, despite all the wonderful bonding experiences of killing and almost killing each other, we’re together. It’s heartwarming, really. And it’s been a thing for months now. If you’ve only just noticed, I’m going to go out on a limb and say I doubt this is really going to be an issue, you know?”

Boyd stares him down for a long time. Stiles doesn’t know what passes between them, whether they’re both adept in werewolf mindreading or _what_, but something shifts between them and they both relax. “Nah, dude.” Boyd shakes his head. “As long as this doesn’t fuck with the pack. We’re cool. Fuck, I need some brain bleach though. Jesus Christ.”

Peter nods and steps back.

Stiles doesn’t know where to begin. “Boyd. Wow. I didn’t know you cared.”

Boyd snorts and moves in the direction of the trailhead. “I’m going to call Scott and tell him we got our guy.”

Stiles and Peter look at each other, then turn to the mountain ash circle. The omega’s shifted back, revealing a man in his midforties sitting in torn clothes on the ground, watching them with his chin in his hands. “Hey.”

Stiles waves. “’Sup.”

“Like, I know I invaded your territory and whatever, but . . .” The omega shakes his head. “Just wow. I thought my old pack had issues, but _jeez_.”

_Erica_

After helping them bundle the omega into a car for Scott to drive him out of Beacon Hills, Stiles gets into Roscoe and drives home. By the time he gets there, it’s 2am and his phone has pinged with multiple messages.

Erica: _omg_

Erica: _stiles_

Erica: _O M GGGGGGG_

Erica: _tell me boyd is joking_

Erica: _is this real _

Erica: _is this actually happening_

Erica: _shit it’s actually a thing. It’s happening._

Erica: _:O_

Erica: _[evil grin emoji]_

Erica: _so i’m shocked and slightly disgusted and weirded out but i’m also totally into it [see-no-evil monkey emoji]_

Erica: _I dunno how to handle these conflicting emotions_

Erica: _stiles_

Erica: _stiles_

Erica: _stiles_

Erica: _you know what I can see it. Like I think I get it. You two kind of work. _

Erica: _and I bet you WORK [eggplant emoji]_

Erica: _Holy shit do you have couple photos? SEND ME YOUR COUPLEY PICS STILES_

Erica: _is he as hot as I imagine he is? Those v-necks leave little to the imagination ;) ;) ;)_

Erica: _stiles I love and support you and your choices_

Erica: _come oonnnnnnn _

Erica: _o shit youre probably driving_

Erica: _we are having coffee tomorrow morning no excuses_

Erica: _also can I be there when you tell scott_

Stiles: _absolutely not._

Stiles: _go to bed_

Stiles: _congrats on locking down boyd btw_

Erica: _[heart-eyes emoji]_


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter

_Scott, Liam, Isaac_

Coffee with Erica goes about as expected—her full of unrestrained glee and him refusing to share any details while getting as much caffeine into him as he can—but she does say one thing that hums in the back of his brain for the rest of the day: _You weren’t going to actually _tell_ Scott? Oh boy_. He does admin and answers calls and files reports, then practises magic on the nemeton, then heads home to cook dinner for himself and John, all the while thinking about Scott.

Because, if he remembers the future correctly, Scott isn’t going to take it well.

And okay, maybe Stiles was happy to let the pack find out under its own steam, because then he wouldn’t have to initiate anything. They’d just . . . find out and he’d handle it there and then. It’s worked so far. Plus he’s visiting Lydia in less than two weeks and he wants to tell her in person without anyone else spilling the beans to her.

Now that Erica knows, that ship’s probably sailed.

Okay. She’s right. Scott’s his best bud and Stiles _wants_ to tell him. He’d also like it to go super well and it’s not going to. Argh.

When dinner’s put together and cooking on the stove, he pulls out his phone and texts Peter: _I’m going to tell Scott_. Peter must have his phone on him because he responds right away.

Peter: _It’s much better for them if they figure things out for themselves. More educational._

Peter: _And fun_.

Stiles: _He’s my best friend and I want him to know from me._

Peter: _Admirable. What’s stopping you?_

Stiles: _I don’t think it’s going to go well._

Peter: _And that’s stopped you before?_

Stiles is in the middle of writing a very long and rude response when Peter calls him. Stiles picks up. “You know, you don’t have—”

“Stiles. Do what you feel you have to, just leave me out of it. The last thing I need, ever, is a McCall tantrum at my front door.”

Stiles wonders how the hell he likes this guy. “Wow. Nice.”

“Hey. He’s got no leg to stand on. You’ve seen him through how many ill-advised girlfriends?”

Stiles frowns. “None. They’ve all been awesome.”

Peter sighs heavily down the phone. “Allison Argent. Argent. A _hunter_.”

Allison. Now there’s a name no one has mentioned for a while. After everything went down with Gerard and Jackson, the Argents moved away and only Chris keeps in touch. If he’s honest, Stiles misses Allison, but thinks it was probably for the best that the family left.

“Though,” Peter continues, “I concede Kira was too good for him. Okay, consider it one-all on the ill-advised significant other front.”

Stiles raises his eyes to the ceiling in frustration. “Peter. Firstly, we can’t always help who we fall in love with, and secondly, you’re not ill-advised.”

“My self-esteem is incredibly healthy, Stiles, I am more than capable of recognising that yes, I am, and I’m more than okay with it. However, seeing as you’re willing to defend my honour, it would be remiss of me not to do the same. If he gives you shit, I’ll be willing to speak to him, but only on condition of him not making that ridiculous betrayed face he has.”

Stiles finally understands the sensation of being agog. “Is this you trying to be _helpful_? Or comforting? You suck at it.”

There’s a long pause with inaudible muttering. “Fine.” Peter sounds like he’s pulling teeth, but his voice has softened. “Stiles. Much as I despise nearly everything about him, he’s loyal to a fault. He’s _your_ friend and he won’t disown you over something like this. Even if he’s angry, he’ll get over it. Stop stressing and just do it. Your friendship will probably be better for it in the end.”

Something tight in Stiles loosens. “He’ll get over it. You’re right. He will.” Somehow he’d forgotten that.

“I . . .” Peter clears his throat. “I can be there too. If you want.”

Stiles looks at his phone in shock, then pokes himself. Yup, all real. “Seriously?”

“I’ll want to gouge my eyes out every second, but yes. Seriously.”

Stiles finds himself grinning. “Oh my god. I appreciate the support, but that’s a truly, _truly_ terrible idea.”

“Thank fuck. Good luck. And thanks for last night.” Peter hangs up before Stiles can respond.

Stiles eats then heads over to Scott’s apartment. It’s halfway between his old house, where Melissa still lives, and the vet clinic, and Stiles honestly wonders why he bothers, because he’s always hanging out at Melissa’s or the loft or Stiles’ place or the clinic.

Still.

He gets there and knocks on the door. Scott opens it and grins. “Stiles, hey! This is a surprise. Come in.”

Stiles steps inside and closes the door after him. “Scott, there’s something I—.”

“It’s good you’re here, actu—”

They both stop short. Scott gestures at him. “You look kind of stressed. You go first.”

This is it. Ripping off a bandaid, right? Right. “I’m dating Peter.”

Scott looks confused. “What?”

“I’m dating Peter.”

Scott tilts his head then a small smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, good one.” The smile freezes. “Right?”

Stiles shifts weight. “Uh. Nope. Actually, uh, dating him. Regularly. Dinners and movies and research picnics. All that stuff.”

Scott glances behind him, at the living room, then turns back to Stiles. “Uh. Are you serious?” And there’s the disbelief Stiles was expecting. “_Him_?”

Okay, Stiles is officially tired of the judgement. “He’s not so bad, Scott. He’s—”

“Not so bad? _Not so bad_?!” Scott grabs his shoulders and shakes him slightly. “Stiles! He killed his niece! He killed so many people! He _bit me_!”

“And that’s worked out well for you, right?”

Scott blinks at him. “What the fuck? Stiles, it changed everything for me. I don’t understand how you could . . . He pisses everyone off, including you!” He lets Stiles go and paces back. “Oh my god. I know you two, like, flirt-argue with each other all the time, but that’s no basis for a relationship!”

Stiles follows him. “Look, you don’t have to understand, but—”

“He’s bad news, Stiles. He’s only out for himself, and he’ll only hurt you.” Scott stops short. “Oh. Right.”

Stiles almost runs into him. “What’s the—oh.”

They’re in the living room, and there’s Liam, sat on the couch with his hands over his eyes as though if he can’t see them, they won’t see him. He lowers his hands, then gives a small wave. “Um. Hey.”

Oh, perfect. “You’re here?”

Liam stands. “Scott and I were chatting about things, uh but you know, with this”—he gestures to them—“situation, I think I’ll go, just to, um, yeah.” He walks over to them and pats each of them on the arm. “Speak later, Scott. Stiles. Um. Congrats? Uh. Bye.” Then he almost sprints out of the apartment.

Stiles waits until the door closes after him. “Is this really such a surprise?”

Scott clenches his jaw. “I thought there was a, a, thing between you two. But I didn’t think it was an actual _thing_, you know?”

Stiles remembers something. “You told me everyone smelled like arousal! But that wasn’t true! You knew how I felt before _I_ did, dude!”

Scott looks utterly baffled. “Wait, what?”

Shit, informative flirty remark from Peter in the future. Out of context. Stiles barrels past it. “You knew I was attracted to him, and him to me. This can’t be that out of the park for you.”

“Okay, yeah. I ignored it because that’s polite and because I never, ever thought you’d actually _act_ on it!” Scott starts pacing again. “Stiles. Of all the stupid, idiotic, _ridiculous_ stuff you’ve done, this is like number one. He’s a maniac. He’s a psycho. He’s a fucking _narcissist_. When has he ever done something truly selfless for the pack? When has he ever put us ahead of him? You _know_ all he wants is to be an alpha again, right? He uses people for power and that’s it. That’ll be you. Stiles”—and the puppy eyes are turned on full force—“this is a mistake. He’s just using you. He’s a _killer_.”

“Uh, so am I? So are _all_ of us, Scott. What did we do to that gryphon? To those pixies? To like every monster we encounter?”

“Not every one—we save the ones we can, you know that.” Scott looks like he’s on the verge of tears. “We give people second chances. Peter doesn’t. He doesn’t care about people at all. You can’t just—”

“You asshole.” He can barely think. Something’s taken over Stiles’ mouth; the words are just flying out. “You’re such a hypocrite. You’re okay with Deucalion killing all the people he has, he’s fine to walk out of here, no consequences and no hang-ups, but Peter still gives you issues? Peter has saved all _our_ asses countless times. _I’ve_ saved our asses countless times. Who cares if he’s looking out for himself? He helps us anyway! And you don’t seem to mind so much when he finds that key piece of information we need, do you? And when have _we_ ever looked out for _him_? When have _we_ been a pack for _him_? Where’s his second chance? Hasn’t he earned that by now? Maybe he’d be better if we trusted him more, did you ever consider that?”

Scott takes a step back. “Uh, Stiles—”

“Shut up.” Stiles is so angry, his skin is prickling with it. “He deserves a chance. You don’t even know how good he can be. And another thing: here’s me, actually _telling_ you about this, because you’re my best friend, and because Peter’s important to me, and I want you to know. Fine, you don’t trust him, but don’t you trust_ me_?”

“Yeah, but _Stiles_—”

“And you know what, you don’t have to like it. No one fucking likes it, except Erica, which is kind of weird, but whatever, half the time _I_ don’t like it because I want to _kill_ him, and half the time I want to fuck him like crazy, and the other half of the time I actually love him, so deal with _that_ Scott.”

“Stiles, you need to—”

“And here’s something else, I actually liked Allison. You know? I really liked her. But she _wasn’t_ a good choice for you. The whole hunter-werewolf thing? Remember that? It wasn’t cool, Scott. Bringing their attention to the pack, that got a ton of people hurt, remember?”

Scott looks devastated. “Stiles, let me—”

“Including _me_, man. Gerard got to _me_, remember?! Because he was trying to push you. Now what’s happened to _you_ because of me being with Peter, huh?”

Scott crosses his arms. “You made your fucking point. Put my stuff back on the floor, quit the light show, and get out.”

Stiles blinks and realises everything in Scott’s living room is floating several feet in the air. His magic is sizzling through him and it looks like electric sparks dancing across his skin. Shit. He pulls it back in carefully and everything settles back. He drags one hand through his hair and finds it standing on end. There’s a weird ringing in his ears as he turns and leaves the apartment.

He’s still furious as he gets in his Jeep, but as he drives away, it starts subsiding. By the time he’s pulled up outside Peter’s apartment building, he’s replayed the argument over and over again and regrets everything. Losing control of his magic isn’t good. Throwing Gerard in Scott’s face wasn’t fair—like anyone could’ve controlled or predicted that asshole, least of all a bunch of teenagers.

But Scott was totally out of line. So out of line. Where was the trust? Where was the compassion? So much fucking judgement, it wasn’t _fair_. The anger returns, heady and awful.

When Peter opens his front door, his expression is tight. Stiles goes forward and hugs him tightly.

“That bad huh?” Peter puts one arm around him and closes the door with the other. “Come on.” He walks them both over to the sofa. Stiles immediately burrows against Peter’s body.

Peter is a little stiff. “You wanna talk about it?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Let me guess. He got righteous and judgemental, and you got furious and defensive.”

Stiles shrugs again.

Fingers start running through his hair. “Give it time. He’ll calm down.”

“We said shitty things to each other.” His voice sounds like it’s been through a cheese grater.

Peter snorts. “Like that hasn’t happened before. You’ll both get over it.”

“I lo-like you.” Stiles buries his face in Peter’s shoulder. “I _really_ like you. That hasn’t happened before.”

Peter sighs. “I’ll appreciate that more when you’re not riding the emotional tailwind of a fight with your best friend. Thanks though.”

“You’re such an asshole. Why the hell am I with you?”

“I don’t know. But I’m glad you are.”

A warm thrill goes through him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter holds him tighter. “We have fun times together. I’ve been happy. Ier. Happier. It’s good to feel that again.” His voice is stilted, hesitant.

Stiles chuckles. “Oh my god. An emotional confession. I should’ve recorded that.”

Peter relaxes under him. “Probably. Don’t get used to it.”

They sit for a little longer. It’s peaceful. Nice. He hasn’t seen Peter like this before, even in the future.

He says quietly, “I’m happy too.”

Peter’s hand brushes over the nape of Stiles’ neck. “Good.”

The main worry returns. Stiles sits up. “So why can’t Scott see that? What if this has totally fucked our friendship?”

Peter gives him a flat look. “Stiles, I can’t begin to understand your friendship with him, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say, given everything you’ve been through together, I doubt this is the thing that breaks it.”

Stiles hopes so. The rage and upset and everything is calming down now, even though the fight keeps going round and round in his head. He and Scott bicker, sure, and they’ve had their shitty moments over the years, but this felt like something else. He has to remind himself of what Scott is like in the future. Peter is right: they’ll move past this. Stiles _knows_ this. Right now it doesn’t feel like that will be the case at all.

“Thanks.” He puts his arms around Peter’s neck. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Peter’s voice is full of mock outrage, but his touch is gentle as he goes down Stiles’ body to his lower back. “Since when have you asked permission before?”

“Fine. I’m staying tonight.”

“I _suppose_ I can deal with that.” He eyes Stiles carefully before kissing him and pulling him close. Stiles’ heart flips over.

*

Somehow everyone hears about the fight. It might have something to do with Stiles and Scott avoiding each other, but Stiles would put money on Liam spilling the beans. The pack chat goes quiet, some of the officers give sympathetic pats on Stiles’ shoulder at work, Derek’s eyebrows take on more gravitas than usual, and Isaac actually comes by with homemade cookies and nice words about making up already. Deaton remains as stoic as ever—helpful, because Stiles has trouble concentrating on the sigils Deaton’s trying to teach him.

After a few days, Stiles’ dad tosses out some suggestions over dinner.

Stiles pushes his peas around his plate as John eyes him carefully.

“I’m not made of glass,” Stiles says. “It’s just a, uh, disagreement.”

“Over Peter,” John points out.

Stiles resists the urge to slump in his chair. “Scott isn’t the one dating him.”

“He’s just worried. I think we all imagined someone else for you.”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t want that conversation again.” Dad hasn’t been happy about them dating, but he hasn’t been lecturing or angry. The vibe that comes off him is worry followed by confusion. Stiles knows it could be worse and he’s reluctant to discuss Peter because he really doesn’t want it to get worse.

“You’re not getting it.” John spears some salad leaves and a tomato. “You see where he’s coming from, right?”

Stiles grinds out, “Yeah.”

“Then maybe help Peter make a better impression on everyone.”

“No point. Peter doesn’t care.” He thinks he does, actually, but would rather move to the other side of the world than admit it to the pack. “His image is kind of his problem anyway.”

“I think it’s becoming yours too, kiddo. Whatever it is that you see in him, show it to the rest of us.” John still hasn’t eaten the salad. “I’m just saying, it might help.”

That’s not the worst idea in the world. Stiles gazes pointedly at John’s fork, and he finally eats. Stiles is going to ensure John sees the other side of eighty if it kills him.

“You can start by bringing him over for dinner,” John adds after he swallows.

“Oh my god. He’s not ready for that.” All the myriad ways that this could go wrong cross his mind and Stiles finds himself drowning in the horrible possibilities.

“No, _you’re_ not ready for that.”

Stiles gapes at him. “Dad! You can’t just drop that on me and expect me to be instantly excited at the prospect. Him and us? Here? Eating spaghetti or whatever? Maybe we’ll watch a movie or football afterwards. Chat about the economy and holiday plans. Personally I don’t know that I can _see_ that, you know, because of the whole—” he gestures “—history with the pack thing. Or, oh my _god_, you wanna give Peter the shovel talk? Is that what you want to do? Are you gonna clean your gun too? You know it won’t do anything, right? He’s a werewolf. _Werewolf_. Holy god, he’s probably able to smell the judgement from the other side of _town_.”

John watches him.

“And like, you know, maybe, just _maybe_ you’re on the money about the whole readiness thing, it’s just that I really really really _really_ can’t see it going well _at all_—”

“Stiles.” He’s honestly grateful for the interruption at this point. John has that Look on his face that Stiles has never ever been able to argue around. “When you’re both ready, bring him around. If he cares about you at all, he’ll do it. Because I care about you, I won’t give him a hard time.”

Stiles glares at him. “Much.”

John shrugs and grins. “Maybe just a bit.”

They finish dinner and clean-up, watch some TV, then Stiles heads upstairs. He spends far too long composing a text, then spends way too long wondering if texting this is immature, then decides that he’s a millennial, goddammit, texting is officially the best way of communicating, and sends the dinner invitation to Peter before going to bed. The response arrives in the middle of the early morning so it’s the first thing he reads after waking up: _If I absolutely must, but only because I like you, and as long as I choose the wine_.

Stiles: _no booze._

Peter: _Christ. Fine. I *will* have wine beforehand though._

Stiles: _Dad says to arrange it when we’re both ready. I don’t think I am._

Peter: _Oh thank god. You could have included that little detail in the original message._

Peter: _Nonetheless, I know parents appreciate things like this. Tell me when and I’ll be on my best behaviour_.

Peter: _Wait, you don’t want me to meet your dad? It’s dinner, Stiles, not chasing insane me through the Preserve._

Stiles: _so glad we can joke about that now_

Peter: _we can’t but people do anyway_

Stiles: _he’s still the sheriff and has a gun and I really really really want him to see what we’re like together so that he doesn’t shoot you_

Stiles: _um we can totally joke about your insane phase_

Peter: :|

Peter: _I think the three of us can manage dinner_

Peter: _btw you seem to be running late for work._

Stiles: _!!_

*

About a week after the fight, Stiles leaves the station at the end of the work day to find Scott waiting for him in the parking lot. He’s parked his bike next to Roscoe and looks tense, arms crossed and jaw clenched. He nods jerkily at Stiles. “Hey.”

“We talking now?” Stiles asks.

“If you have time, yeah.”

Stiles nods. “Cool. Not here though.”

“Follow me.” Scott starts putting his helmet on.

Stiles gets into Roscoe and trails Scott out of the station parking lot. Scott heads for the high school, which is closed at this time of day. Stiles has driven past it many times since graduating, but looking at it now, in the evening light, it looks somehow smaller and older than it used to. He and Scott start heading by wordless agreement for the lacrosse pitch.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Scott begins.

“Me too!” Stiles bursts.

Scott gives him a pointed look and says, “Dude, I still think you and Peter are a bad idea. I don’t trust him and I don’t think I ever will. But I trust you. And I guess there’s something there that’s making you happy, right?” Stiles nods. “Okay.”

Scott falls silent but he doesn’t seem done yet so Stiles doesn’t say anything.

They stop in the middle of the pitch, taking in the bleachers and benches. The goalie nets are still up from practice and there’s a strong distinct smell that Stile calls _California at dusk_ lingering over the grass. It’s so familiar. Stiles spent how much of his time out here with Scott? Running around in sweaty gear, trying to decipher Coach’s advice, sitting on that bench watching the team play; it feels like another time altogether. This is where Stiles first spoke to Peter in human form—though, all things considered, that hadn’t been a good night. Stiles does remember how Peter seemed to _get_ him, how there was a connection there. How he offered the bite and Stiles said no and while he doesn’t regret that, he still sometimes wonders _what if_.

Scott clears his throat. “I don’t like murder. I don’t like killing. I let Deucalion go, despite the trouble the alpha pack gave us. You were right about that: if I can see the potential in Deucalion, then I can extend that to Peter. Everyone deserves a second chance, and he’s definitely earned that. Even though I don’t like him or how he operates, I can’t deny that he _has_ helped us and he keeps helping us.” Scott glances at him. “I’m sorry. Getting mad at you wasn’t the right thing to do, and—”

Stiles hugs him tightly. “I’m sorry too. Yelling at you wasn’t cool. You’re not a hypocrite. And bringing up the whole bite thing was a low blow—I know how much it sucked for you and we’ll never know what would have happened without it.”

Scott hugs him back. “I sometimes think about what life would have been like if I’d stayed human. It’s hard to imagine it. Too much has gone down.”

“Yeah.” Stiles lets him go. “Also, I shouldn’t have thrown Allison in your face. We can’t help who we fall for and it’s not your fault Gerard did the things he did.”

“No, but getting involved with the Argents wasn’t exactly my best move either.” Scott looks sheepish. “I should honestly relate way more to you on that basis alone.”

“And it’s not like I don’t get the distrust and the anger, you know? Peter’s an asshole.”

Scott throws up his hands. “_Such_ an asshole.”

“But he’s got principles, Scott. Deep down, he gives a shit. About himself, sure, but also about me. And I’m kind of an asshole too, you know. We’re good together. Really.” Stiles gazes at his best friend and realises he’s missed him. When was the last time they spent time like this? Just the two of them, really talking shit out? “I get it. You’re concerned. I’m glad you have my back, even if you’re a dick about it.”

“If he hurts you, I’m going to make sure he knows it.” The corner of Scott’s mouth lifts in a quirk. “I think I did know you two were having a thing, I just didn’t want to believe it. That wasn’t fair. We’re brothers. You should be able to tell me anything.”

“Back at you, dude.”

They hug again, then separate and pretend to remove dust from their eyes.

Scott scans the field. The lines have been freshly painted and they seem to glow in the gloom. “Can you believe how much time we spent out here?”

Stiles eyes the bench. “Yup. Best years of our lives. Not.”

“Yup. Too much trouble.” Scott bumps his shoulder. “Imagine if Peter had bitten you that night instead of me.”

Stiles forces a smile. “Imagine if he’d bitten us both.”

They both wince.

Scott shakes his head. “That first full moon wouldn’t have been pretty.” There’s a small pause. “So, is now a good time to ask how you levitated my furniture?”

Oh crap. He’d totally meant to mention that. He explains about his growing powers. “I was waiting to get more control before sharing with the group.”

Scott nods. “Makes sense.”

“I’ve been training with Deaton for a few months. Well. More than a few. Almost a year. _Almost_.” He sees Scott’s expression and rushes to add, “Control! It’s important. It takes time. I can make chairs fly and light a fire and throw down the mountain ash but that’s kind of it.”

“I did notice how good those ash circles were getting,” Scott says slowly.

Stiles tries not to preen. “Damn right.”

“I’m thinking about expanding the pack.” Scott looks up at the sky. A few stars are visible already. “That’s what Liam and I were talking about the night you came over. He knows a few people who might be interested and I have this _need_ for more betas. What do you think?”

“It’s not really my decision, dude.”

“No, but I want your opinion.”

Stiles shrugs. “Do what you gotta do. Make sure they’re cool. We don’t need another Boyd and Erica.” Scott laughs.

The field is now quite dark. It brings back memories of games and monsters.

Stiles feels lighter now. He’s glad this is over with. “I’m seeing Lydia in like two days. I’ll tell her too.”

“I dunno. She probably already knows. If Erica hasn’t told her by now, Isaac definitely has. Good luck though.” Scott inhales deeply. “Jesus. Teenager stink lingers for a long time. Are we good?”

“Yeah.” They slap each others’ shoulders and turn back for the parking lot.

*

A few days later, the day before his flight east, Stiles is doing his thing on the nemeton when it finally connects with him. His book jerks out of his hands and he flails to the side, ending up hanging half off the edge of the stump.

The nemeton is a presence, but it’s not a person. There’s no personality, no feelings, no thoughts. It’s just a warm presence of magic and power, one that he can finally sense and connect directly to. He sits and soaks up the magnitude of power, the sheer scale of what’s beneath Beacon Hills. It’s immense, too much for his brain to handle. No wonder creatures are drawn to it; power and promise radiates like the sun. He lets it wash over him.

Something comes into his head, an idea, a concept, a need: _barrier_.

The nemeton recedes, and Stiles gapes up at the overcast sky.

A barrier.

It makes sense. Keep things away from the vast well of power here. Keep Beacon Hills safe. Plus he’s done it before—or will do it. Future Melissa and Peter mentioned it.

He glances down at his book on the philosophy of time. Perhaps he should move onto protecting the town. That seems like an excellent thing to do, regardless of how his future turns out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's next


	36. Chapter 36

Stiles’ stomach churns the entire drive to the airport and flight to Boston. When he gets to South Station, Lydia is waiting for him at the bus stop, her arms crossed and that too-familiar annoyed expression. Stiles isn’t sure he’s seen it since they graduated and his stomach sinks through the floor. Despite the obvious disapproval, she looks good—jeans, boots and jacket. Far more relaxed than the prom queen image she pulled through high school, but still undeniably Lydia Martin.

He steps off the bus and heads over to her, arms wide and a big smile to cover his nervousness. “Lydia! My queen of queens!”

“Peter Hale.” She doesn’t uncross her arms and her glare somehow intensifies. “Of all people, Stiles. _Peter Hale_.”

Stiles drops his arms when he stops in front of her. “Hey. You were into _Jackson_ for almost all of high school.”

She tilts her head. “Jackson didn’t kill his family. Jackson didn’t come back from the dead by giving me waking nightmares for weeks and getting me to _dig up his body_. Jackson sure as hell was never clinically insane. And he never _bit_ me and activated my banshee powers and sentenced me to a life of _feeling people die_.”

It’s amazing how repetitive this feels. In the face of her fury, though, he finds it more difficult to be angry and defensive. “Peter’s a work in progress . . .?”

She scoffs. “Wow, Stiles.”

“We all are,” he adds.

She finally uncrosses her arms and whacks him on his shoulder. “You’re such an idiot. Seriously. Oh my _god_. Why _him_?”

Stiles shrugs. “I realised he has good in him.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “He didn’t bite you too, did he? Drug you? Is he blackmailing you? It’s not the sex, right?” She makes a face. “You’re both guys. It’s probably the sex.”

He has no idea what to say to that. “Jesus, I just . . . Look, I’ll explain everything, Lydia. It’s a long story and it’s related to, you know—” he gestures vaguely “—that thing I mentioned last year at movie night. And the time travel thing we talked about.”

She frowns. “Sounds like it needs beer. It better be good.” She leans forward and hugs him. “Glad you’re here.”

“Oh finally, _now_ I get a hug, thank you.” He hugs her tightly. “It’s awesome to see you. We all miss you.” This is an unexpected but pleasant surprise. She’s not telling him to get lost and never contact her again.

“Was the flight okay?”

“Yeah, it was fine.”

They head over to Lydia’s apartment in Cambridge and ready themselves for the night. Stiles does think that maybe a drink in hand will be helpful when telling the story. Lydia shows him her favourite bar, where he starts telling the story, but they both get sidetracked by the music, then they go to another bar where the music is better but the drinks more expensive, then they head into downtown and somehow end up in a club, dancing into the early morning. They drink too much and flirt irrepressibly with anyone willing and upload too many photos to Instagram. When they stumble out into the dim grey twilight of the morning, Lydia leads him down to the water’s edge and they watch the dawn break over the bay.

It’s such a perfect late spring morning after a perfect night out, Stiles almost can’t believe it. So beautiful. He feels so free, like anything could happen. Maybe this is a break he didn’t realise he’d needed. They’re curled on a bench together, sharing body warmth through their coats as they sober up. Lydia’s taken her heels off and is massaging her feet.

“This is a cool place to be,” Stiles declares. His voice cracks from all the shout-singing.

“Oh, so glad you approve.” In the dawn light, her make-up is a little smeared, but her eyes are bright and her smile is wide.

“How goes the whole banshee thing here?”

She shrugs. “In Cambridge it’s not too bad. I try to stay out of downtown. Tonight was worth it though.”

“Yeah.” He checks his phone. There’s only been a few texts from Peter, the last one being _have fun_, received at the last bar before the club. Stiles has sent a stream of ridiculousness since then, none of which has been read. His phone is about to die.

She nudges him. “Is that him?”

“I’ve drunk texted him so much.” He puts his phone down and leans back. “Oh my god. He’s going to be so annoyed, then jealous. It’s gonna be awesome.”

She doesn’t respond. Stiles turns to look at her, and she’s studying him thoughtfully. “We won’t get distracted here. Tell me everything, right now.”

And finally he does.

He starts with the oregano and ends with this visit to Boston. He leaves out certain details, but this summary is more detailed than the one he gave Deaton. He doesn’t plan to tell her as much as he does, but once he gets started, he can’t seem to stop.

When he’s done, the sun is a little higher, the water in the bay has changed from pink to silver, and there’s a weight lifted off him. She’s put her legs over his lap and has her chin resting in her hand. “That sounds completely made-up,” is the first thing she says.

“I know.”

“I believe you though. It’s too detailed to be fake, and not even you would pull something like this for a prank.” Her gaze turns distant. “I _knew_ something was up. That sense of death can’t be faked, and you definitely behaved strangely, even for you. Oh my god though. Time travel? Actual time travel?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s incredible. Holy crap, the _possibilities_, Stiles. This is _ground-breaking_.” He can actually see her calculating, then forcing herself to put that particular point down. She leans forward. “Okay. Next thing. You helped me? Even though we apparently weren’t friends anymore?”

Stiles nods. “Of course.”

She smiles softly at him. “Thank you. In advance. But can I just say, that makes like _zero_ sense to me. I wouldn’t do that to you, stop being your friend. Even if you did marry Peter. Will marry him.” She makes a face. “You two getting together makes way more sense now.”

“I really like him,” Stiles admits.

She purses her mouth. “You love him.”

He squints sheepishly at her. “Yeah.”

“It’s all over your face.”

“You should’ve seen him, Lydia. He’s amazing. He was helpful and badass and so caring. He has all these different sides to him and I was just . . . I don’t know. I couldn’t _not_ like him, you know? I trusted him. I trust him now.”

She shakes her head. “Unbelievable. He’s wasted on you. I have no time for him after what he did to me, but if he makes you happy, whatever.” She leans forward, expression thoughtful. “Time travel though. I can’t stop thinking about it. You know, I wonder what this will do to the paradox. Me knowing, that is.”

“It’s possible you always knew.” Stiles describes again what she’d done in the clearing that final night.

“I might be way too tired to really grasp all the details,” she says, “but to me, it sounds like I did know. I knew I’d need you and I’d need the specific time travel spell or summoning spell or whatever. The only way I could know that and be prepared is if you told me what would happen.”

Stiles feels like his head is going to explode. “Which I just did. I didn’t plan to, but I did anyway.”

She beams. “I _love_ paradoxes.”

“Hooray. My head hurts.”

“Stiles. _Time travel._” She drops her shoes and grabs his hands. “Imagine if we somehow managed to travel through time, with magic. If we could replicate it. That conversation we had has been bugging me, the fact that magic could _potentially_ do that, and now you’re proof that it _can_. Stiles, we have to prove it and document it.”

He blinks at her. “_Why_?”

She drops his hands. “Are you serious? Look, what happened . . . or will happen? What happened to you is awful, of course. But this is a major development for humanity!”

“Magic isn’t new.” He frowns. “Someone’s probably already done it.”

“But where’s the evidence? Where’s the spell? Why aren’t spellcasters messing with time _all_ the time?”

“I don’t know. It might not be that straightforward. What if it was just a freak accident? I still don’t know if what’s going to happen _will_ actually happen. You know that, right? I could die on the flight back to California. So could you, the next time you visit.”

“Stiles.” Her eyes glint and again he can see the cogs turning. “I know Deaton said you have choices, but you know what I think? That the mere existence of the paradox means that events are _fixed_. What will be will be, and everything you do will lead up to it.” She leans back. “You should make a decision that seems to go against the grain of the paradox. See what happens.”

“Like _what_?”

“I don’t know. No one else expected you in the future, right? Tell your dad or Scott.”

Stiles has thought about it, but he’s always stopped himself, precisely because he gets tangled in knots like this about potential effects and unravelling. “I don’t know if I want to risk that.”

“You mean risk undoing it? If you did, you probably wouldn’t realise. This version of you would disappear, and the version that never had that experience would replace you.” She snaps her fingers. “It would probably happen like that. Quick. Painless.”

Fear grips his gut. “I don’t want that. I know what I have here. I want to be with him, Lydia, to have him be a thing in my life.”

“Huh.”

“I get it, I get what you’re saying, but there’s no reason I have to _test_ anything. And I still have time to think about it. Just under eleven years, to be precise.”

She exhales sharply. “That’s a long time. Good for preparation, but bad for testing theories because you have more time to get invested in whatever life you build, you know that, right? Probably better to test the inevitability now.”

“This is my _life_, Lydia. Potentially yours too. Maybe in the timeline where I don’t go forward, you don’t get into Harvard.”

She scoffs. “Please. There’s no timeline where I don’t get into Harvard.”

“What if I fuck up that gryphon spell instead and everyone dies somehow? What about _that_ timeline?”

“It wasn’t that kind of spell, Stiles.” She nods as though she’s figured something out. “At the very least, I had a spell that summoned young you. And I don’t think I’d develop that on my own, not if you were in the know.”

He nods reluctantly. Looking at her, at how excited she is despite the sleepless night and the exhaustion creeping up on both of them, he realises that no matter what, she’s invested. Time travel and magic has her analytical brain going. And if he’s honest, he’s been wondering how that physical spell of hers would work too. He wants to know just for the hell of it.

“Look,” he says. “It’s eleven years away. Future Peter told me to take things one day at a time. Deaton said the same thing. I think we should research the hell out of time travel before I go testing anything.”

She sags, but nods. “I suppose that makes sense. Eleven years. What a countdown.” She sits up again rapidly. “Wait. What’s the world like in eleven years?”

“Pretty similar to now.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on. Who’s the president? Are we all eating insects?” Her eyes widen. “Am I married?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not telling, no, and I genuinely don’t know. I spent all my time with Peter; I learned next to nothing about what your life was like. According to everyone, we hadn’t spoken in years.”

“Now that _is_ a weird detail. Why would we do that? To avoid suspicion?” She gets that look on her face, the one Stiles remembers from high school. “Maybe to motivate Peter. If I end our friendship because of him, and you’re as upset as you rightfully would be, _he’d_ probably feel a little guilty for causing a rift between us. Helping you will resolve some of that for him. Ah. It could be psychological insurance.”

Stiles remembers why he’s been in awe of Lydia Martin since middle school. “But he’s married to me. He’ll help me anyway.”

She grins. “You sure? Sounds like you’re super competent in the future. He could duck out, given your amazing abilities.”

Stiles shakes his head. “He wouldn’t. Not the Peter I know.”

She leans in closer. “Imagine how annoyed he’ll be once he finds out. Imagine the make-up sex afterwards.”

Oh damn. Damn. “I’ll _consider_ it.”

She laughs.

They sit for a few more minutes, then both of their stomach growl and she scoops up her shoes. “Let’s grab some brunch.”

“Hell yeah.” He needs some waffles and coffee, then a nice long nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a need to say: this particular reaction was part of the plot/plan from the beginning.


	37. Chapter 37

The rest of the weekend involves deep discussions of time travel, book recommendations, and setting up a specific chat regarding time travel, entitled _lunch pics_. They update the bestiary, watch sitcoms, Lydia shows him around the campus, and it’s all too soon that he finds himself on a flight back home.

He lands late in the evening and drives straight home with the immediate plan of going to bed. Dad’s working the late shift, so he doesn’t worry about waking him when he gets in. Which is good, because it’s gone one a.m. by the time Stiles reaches the house, and he’s so ready to hit the hay it’s not funny. He parks Roscoe, heads up to his room, tosses his bag down then turns to close the door and comes face-to-face with Peter.

“Oh my _god_.” He reels back in shock, suddenly wide-awake. “Jesus, what is it with you Hales and _silence_? Can’t you _warn_ a guy?”

Peter shuts the door for him. “Thought your magic would see me.”

“Everything about me is tired, okay?”

Peter smirks. “Welcome back.”

Oh. A _welcoming_ committee. “Aw. You missed me, honeybunch?” Stiles missed Peter, not that he’ll admit it now. Or ever. Maybe.

Peter makes a face. “I thought I did, but I’m rapidly reconsidering.”

Stiles reaches for him and puts his arms around Peter’s neck. “Nope, you’re here now. Too late. Hey. Hi.”

Peter’s hands rest on his hips and he steps in close. “You look like crap and you smell . . .” The wolf blue flares slightly. “Like other people.”

Stiles is too tired to hide his annoyance. “No shit, Peter, I just spent like ten hours travelling, that’s what happens when—”

Peter drags his hands up Stiles back and dives down to suck hard at his throat. Stiles’ pulse goes into overdrive and he shuts up. He runs one hand through Peter’s hair as Peter _thoroughly_ mauls his neck while touching him all over. By the time Peter’s facing him again, Stiles is hard and sleep can wait for another fifteen minutes at least. Maybe even a whole half hour. Stiles stares at him, taking in the intense gaze and slow, sly smirk, then drags him in closer and kisses him fiercely. Peter tugs impatiently at his shirt and they break so that he can pull it off. Between kisses and clothing removal, it takes longer than necessary to get to Stiles’ bed, but that’s okay. It’s worth it. Stiles pushes him onto the bed, then works his underwear off as Peter gets comfy.

Peter glances around him. “I can’t believe you’re still sleeping in a twin at home.”

Stiles straddles him. “Not accepting critiques right now.”

“Fair.” Peter sits up and kisses him, giving Stiles an excellent opportunity to run his hands down that excellent chest and over those exquisite abs. Peter groans and guides one of Stiles’ hands down to their cocks. They fumble before aligning both cocks and getting the right rhythm with both hands. Stiles jerks with pleasure, gaze flickering between their hands around each other and the bliss on Peter’s face. He speeds up. Peter swears under his breath and tries to keep him at a slower pace. Stiles leans down and nips at the underside of Peter’s jaw, causing curses and the prickle of claws in the hand at his hip.

“Behave, Stiles,” Peter growls.

“Make me.”

Blue flashes at him, then one rough manhandling moment later, Stiles is on his back, both hands pinned above his head, and Peter fisting their cocks together excruciatingly slowly.

“Peter.” Stiles wants to touch, he wants to taste him, he wants it _faster_, dammit.

“As you kids say, slow your roll,” Peter says.

Stiles goes still in surprise, gaping up at him.

Peter arches an eyebrow. “We have all night. No need to rush. Enjoy.” He takes Stiles in for a long moment, then leans down and gently kisses him. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Stiles is bewildered. For a moment he—but of course not, it’s impossible. “G-good,” he breathes.

A swipe of Peter’s thumb over the head of Stiles’ cock gets him back on track. He arches and moans, struggling against Peter’s grip, but the werewolf is relentless. He builds them both up slowly, gazing at Stiles with lowered eyelids. The persistent flex of his bicep, the strength in his hand, and the way sweat trickles down his face and chest—it’s a hypnotic visual feast and Stiles gorges. Being held down makes it extra hot and he pants as he gets closer and closer. It’s endless pleasure and frustration and he can’t fucking handle it.

“Peter,” he gasps.

“Close?”

“Yeah.” Stiles grits his teeth. “Fuck. More. _Faster._”

“You want to come?” Peter leans down closer, so that his mouth brushes Stiles’ ear. “Beg me to make you come.”

Shudders wrack Stiles’ entire body. He’s so close. “Please,” he manages. “_Please_.” Peter _finally_ quickens his hand _and_ licks the shell of Stiles’ ear. He comes, hard, and thinks he sees the edges of the universe. He collapses back into the sheets, chest heaving, and vaguely notes Peter coming above him and the warm spatter on his chest. Peter releases him and lurches forward onto his hands, panting. Stiles watches him, satisfied, incapable of speech. Peter looks wrecked, hair mussed and face sweaty. He falls to Stiles’ side, in the small space between him and the wall, and pushes an arm under Stiles’ neck to bring him close.

Feeling slowly returns to his body. Stiles can’t remember the last time he came that hard. If he’s honest, he’s not sure what he _can_ remember right now.

“I think,” he says, “I should go away for weekends more often.”

Peter makes a discontented rumbling noise and closes his eyes.

Drowsiness descends. Stiles reaches for the tissue box next to his bed, wipes the mess off his chest, then pulls the covers over both of them. He settles back down and presses one hand on Peter’s chest. “Thanks for being here.”

Peter replies, but Stiles doesn’t catch it because he’s falling asleep.

*

When he wakes, he’s facing his window and desk, and Peter is a warm weight at his back. He’s become the little spoon, _yes_. Stiles closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of being snuggled.

Peter stirs. “You’re awake.” One hand slides down over his chest and to his cock. “Good morning.”

Stiles grins to himself, then wriggles against Peter. “G’morning yourself.” He yawns reflexively, then turns over, forcing Peter to slide his hand over to his ass. He gets a squeeze for his trouble.

Peter looks much more awake than Stiles feels. “I hope you don’t have work today, because you’ve slept in.”

“I don’t.” He can linger here in Peter’s arms for as long as he wants. Stiles presses his face in close and breathes in happily. “Thanks for the awesome homecoming.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It was a good one. A-plus.”

“Delighted to hear it.” Peter’s voice is light. “I wanted to see you. You seemed to have a good time with Lydia, if Instagram and your texts are any gauge.”

“I had an awesome time. It was so good to see her. And Boston is great; I can see why she’s in no rush to come back.”

“Hm.” Peter presses his mouth against the side of Stiles’ head. “She clearly took the news about us well.”

Stiles snorts. “I guess? She’s not exactly your number one fan, so she’s not _happy_ about us being a thing, but she’s not the one in a relationship with you, so yeah.” Peter’s so warm against him and he smells _good_. Sweaty, yes, but of himself. Stiles could roll in it. And given how Peter’s doing interesting things below Stiles’ waistline, Stiles is honestly pretty sure this is his new happy place.

“Exactly.” Peter exhales gently into Stiles’ hair. “So. She’s dealing.”

“Were you worried?”

“Not particularly.” There’s an edge to Peter’s voice though. Stiles thinks he was more worried than he let on.

Stiles’ eyes fly open as he realises something and he leans back to look at him. “Not that I’m not enjoying this, but you’re _here_.”

Peter looks confused. “Yes?”

“You’ve never stayed over here before.”

“And that’s . . . significant?”

Stiles nods. “You hate this bed.”

“I truly do.” Peter turns thoughtful. “Though, this isn’t so bad. I _am_ enjoying how high school this is. Sneaking into your room, hiding from your father, fucking you in secret. I suppose sneaking out in the middle of the day will be interesting too. When are you moving out, exactly?”

Stiles glares at him. This has been raised before. “I _like_ living with my dad.”

“You might like having your own place too. I can definitely recommend a bed bigger than a postage stamp. Life-changing.”

“Ha. Ha.” It’s not that Stiles hasn’t thought about it, but he’s not going to be rushed, okay? He’s getting his savings lined up. “I’ll move out eventually. How about you stop changing the subject. You came over and stayed over because you _missed_ me.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “And?”

“I missed you too.” Stiles kisses him. “Thanks. Waking up like this is awesome. We should do it more.”

“We could do it all the time without potential interruption if you moved out.”

Stiles parses that. If it was an offer to move in with Peter, he’d make it obvious. Therefore— “Is my dad awake?”

“No, but it’s only a matter of time, and you’re wasting it by talking.”

Stiles rubs one hand over Peter’s pec. “Talking isn’t a waste of time. We can multitask.”

“Finally.” Peter pushes one leg between Stiles’ and pulls Stiles closer.

Oh man. This is perfect. He’s so happy. Peter is here, in his shitty bed in his childhood room, and he stayed over willingly. And they’re about to have amazing sex again, and it looks like they’re about to spend at least the morning together, if not the day. Everyone knows and accepts them. Could life be any better right now? “This is awesome. I need you to know that this right here is a perfect moment. Oh my god. I wouldn’t break up with you, even if the pack was super mad about it.” Stiles rubs Peters’ shoulders. “No way in hell am I ever giving this up.”

Peter goes still and meets Stiles’ gaze.

“Seriously. I’m not even kidding right now. You are, like, _it_.”

Peter makes an odd expression. “Stiles. I’m glad, really, but I don’t . . . I don’t _need_ that. To hear that. Look, you know my opinion of them—”

“Everyone knows your opinion of them.”

“—Exactly. But they’re important to you. I know you wouldn’t ever turn your back on them.” His hands are firm on Stiles’ body. “You don’t need to prove anything to me by saying that.”

Stiles runs his thumb along Peter’s lower lip. So soft. “I know, I get it, and I guess that’s not really the point. I just . . . I want you to know it’s not either-or. And even if the pack aren’t on board, I want you.”

“Okay.”

Stiles looks at him and tries not to picture Peter covered in blood on icy ground. God, Peter is gorgeous like this. Sleep-rumpled and sex hair and glinting intelligence. _Fuck_, how can there be this much beauty in just one person? How did Stiles get this lucky? “Being in Boston was epic, and I enjoyed the break from here, but I really wished you were there some of the time. There were all these little moments where I wanted to hear you crack a joke about it or see your reaction to it.”

Peter looks amused. “I’m honoured.”

Stiles drinks him in, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and that small smile transforms his face.

“If we’re doing confessions right now, then you’re not so bad yourself.” Peter runs his hand over Stiles’ hip. “And yes, I did in fact miss you.”

Yup, such a perfect moment. Stiles wishes _this_ was a time loop. “Damn right. What did you miss about me?”

Peter rolls onto him so that they’re face-to-face, his body a warm weight over Stiles. Peter runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair and down his face. “Your eyes. Your expressions. Your hands. Your jokes. Just you.” He pauses for a small grind with his hips. “Your dick, obviously.”

Stiles can’t help grinning. “Obviously.”

There’s a long moment where they just _look_ at each other. Stiles reaches up and brushes his thumb across one sharp cheekbone down to his mouth. Peter catches it and nips. Everything surges up, all the feelings of joy and relief and home and comfort and lust, and the inadequate three words that capture them. He doesn’t even think. “Peter. Peter, I—”

Peter kisses him possessively, tongue licking in and sending heat rolling through Stiles.

When they break for breath, Stiles tries again. “Peter—”

“Sshhh.” Peter rubs his stubble down Stiles’ throat and starts grinding on him again. Stiles catches his face in his palms and lifts it up so he can see his expression better. Peter looks wary, almost pained, and he’s unable to meet Stiles’ gaze for long. Another new expression. The words are still there, but if Stiles lets them out, he thinks he’ll break this moment between them.

Okay. Okay.

He kisses Peter instead, letting his body take over. This is easier, simpler. Safer. Peter lets out a rough breath, which could be appreciation or relief, then proceeds to ravage Stiles speechless once more.

In the end, John sleeps for long enough, and Peter looks a little too gleeful about ducking through Stiles’ window.


	38. Chapter 38

This is what he learns about magical protections:

  * They can be crazy effective
  * They’re customisable
  * Some are more powerful than others
  * Some are permanent
  * Some aren’t
  * They protect against specific things, not events, so wording is crucial.

As always, with magic, intent dictates everything.

Stiles practises with symbols first. He draws on the pack with marker pens before they tackle the latest gryphon that’s in town. While he thinks they’ll be fine, having extra protection couldn’t hurt—and he stresses they may not work. The symbols work for Boyd and Scott, but not for anyone else, which Peter takes personally for some strange reason. The broken arm that takes him a whole half day to recover from might have something to do with it. Gigantic baby. Stiles nonetheless aims lower and practises protecting himself against paper cuts, earning himself dozens of little slices on his arm until the paper consistently slides against his skin and fingertips without slicing at all.

The knack of it down, he tries bigger things. Knife wounds, stab wounds in general, wind blasts, burns, magic effects. Some work, some don’t.

Different materials have different effects. Paints are immensely powerful, but flake away as they age, distorting the spell. Water can carry a spell, but only for a brief moment. Charcoals and graphites are weaker, but very long-lasting. Inks are good, but the spell wears off with the ink. Stiles gets his first tattoo—against paper cuts—etched into his shoulder, eyes covered and deliberately focusing on the spell to avoid fainting. To his shock, it works. No paper cuts ever again.

He might start going crazy at the thought of the different kinds of tattoos he could have.

Other types of materials have blocking or protective effects. Mountain ash is one obvious example, but so are various other types of trees, earths, stones, running water, and plants.

And of course there’s always just magic—but a full shield for a person requires a lot of it. Using materials to carry the spell and boost the effect is a far more effective and productive use of a little magic.

He sits with the nemeton at least once week.

And in the background, in his spare time, he continues looking into time and discussing it with Lydia.

He and Peter settle into each other’s lives. They research together, Stiles tests spells on him, they fight big bads together, and in between they go on ridiculously normal dates and have tons of excellent sex. Peter occasionally disappears for days at a time, and is unabashedly cryptic about it. Stiles figures he’s either killing things or digging dirt to help the pack, and either way, Stiles isn’t going to get in the way.

Somehow time passes and before he knows it, it’s the end of the summer.

He doesn’t bring up his feelings again, but he wonders about that moment, whether he was ultimately right to pull back. He still wants to tell him, wants to shout it out into the world sometimes, but the memory of how not-ready Peter was keeps him quiet. Peter is his usual smirky, cocky, sarcastic, sexy self, and Stiles decides ultimately he doesn’t want to disturb that.

But he does think that he’s ready for dinner with dad.

*

Stiles is pacing by the front door, phone in one hand. His dad calls through for the fourth time, “Chill out, Stiles.”

“Can’t!” Stiles calls back without pausing.

Chicken and vegetables are in the oven.

Mashed potatoes are done.

Gravy is done.

Salad is ready.

Peter’s bringing dessert.

And sass and sarcasm and a past so littered with bodies that Stiles isn’t sure he won’t burst into flame on sight of his dad.

He does some exercises with his magic, just to help him calm down.

Footsteps sound outside then someone knocks on the door. Stiles yanks it open immediately. Peter stands with a Tupperware box in one hand and his other hand still raised. His hair is slicked back, he’s wearing his most modest black v-neck, casual dark jeans, and boots, and he cracks a sly smile when he sees Stiles. “That excited to see me, sweetheart?”

Ugh, Stiles wants to lick _and_ kick him. “Get in here already.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Seems like nervous is more accurate.”

“Nervous? Who’s nervous? No one here is _nervous_.” Stiles takes the Tupperware from him and examines the contents. “This isn’t fruit salad. Are these brownies? Oh my god, are these _peanut butter _brownies_?_ Are you trying to kill my dad? Who told you to make peanut butter brownies?”

“You certainly didn’t.” Peter walks past him. “I smell roast chicken. Wonderful.”

Stiles follows him. “No.”

“Yes.”

His dad is standing in the living room, that familiar long-suffering expression on his face. “Yes, Stiles. A man has to eat sugar every once in a while.”

Stiles glares at him. “He _literally_ doesn’t. Sugar is crack for your brain.”

Peter holds out his hand. “Peter Hale. Nice to meet you under pleasant circumstances, Sheriff.”

John hesitates, then shakes his hand. “Peter. Call me John. Want a drink?”

“Sure.”

“We have water, lemonade, coke, iced tea, coffee,” Stiles recites hastily.

John and Peter arch their eyebrows.

“_No booze_.”

John raises his eyes to the ceiling while Peter says, “Lemonade sounds good.”

Stiles hesitates, eyeing them, then goes into the kitchen. He puts the brownies on the counter, checks the food, pours Peter his lemonade, freaks out for a few seconds about the fact that his dad is meeting the guy who regularly gifts his son incredible orgasms via his dick, then returns and hands Peter the drink.

“I’ll tell them that,” his dad is saying.

“Tell them what?” Stiles asks.

“Potential drugs issue near the county line down south.”

Stiles glares at Peter. “What do you know or care about drug running?”

Peter smirks at him. “I probably shouldn’t say. Plausible deniability.”

“For us or for you?”

Peter turns to John. “So I hear that the hospital’s gone a record four months without something strange happening in it.”

“If it’s got anything to do with the pack, keep it up,” John says.

To Stiles’ total amazement, the conversation keeps going like that. Random things happening in and around Beacon Hills. Sports events, national and international. Recent news. Peter’s plans regarding law and retaking the bar exam. He plates dinner and everyone eats it, then he puts out the brownies and limits his dad to one, and everyone acts like everything is normal and fine and while Stiles is certain at any minute that something is going to explode or smash through the wall or prompt a panicky text from Scott or otherwise ensure everything goes wrong, it never does. Peter gets mouthy and sarcastic at times, but isn’t a total jackass, and John gets sarcastic back but doesn’t hint at gun ownership or his job. Peter even volunteers to do the dishes, despite protests, leaving Stiles and his dad in the living room for a few minutes.

It all turns over in his brain, then Stiles lurches over the edge of the sofa to whisper at his dad in the matching armchair. “What is going on with you two?”

John gives him a tired look. “We’re conversing like normal people, Stiles.”

“Yeah! It’s weird!”

“No. Your pack, the fact that he’s a werewolf, and your ability to do magic, _that’s_ weird. The age gap and the realisation that he could’ve babysat you, that’s bugging me, but not out of place. Adult conversation in spite of weirdness is normal.”

Stiles narrows his eyes.

John nods his head at the kitchen. “Pretty sure he can hear us, you know.”

“I can!” Peter calls.

“Not everything has to be a drama,” his dad adds.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Peter yells.

Stiles slumps back onto the sofa, a little unnerved. Peter eventually returns, everyone talks some more, then Peter makes leaving excuses and the Stilinskis lead him to the door.

“This was a lovely evening,” Peter says. “Thank you for having me over.”

“Yeah,” John replies. “It was nice hearing about your other interests besides, well—” he gestures vaguely “—the supernatural stuff.”

“And Stiles.” Peter doesn’t quite grin, but there’s the ghost of one on his face.

John studies him. "We gonna do this?" He crosses his arms. “Fine. Hurt him and I’ll hurt you, werewolf or not.”

Stiles wants a black hole to appear somewhere nearby and suck all of this into nothingness.

“He’s more than capable of hurting me, Sheriff.” Peter does grin now. “But I appreciate the honesty. Noted.”

“Safe drive home.”

They shake hands. Peter smirks at Stiles, winks, then leaves.

Stiles waits until he can’t hear Peter’s car engine before letting rip. “You’ll _hurt him_? Oh my god, Dad, I wasn’t serious about the shovel talk! How are you even real right now?”

“If he hurts you, I’ll be very real in how I react.” His dad flashes him an unimpressed look. “I’m your dad. It’s what I do. And this is the world we live in, where he’s very dangerous and you’re involved with him.”

“I’m dangerous too!” Stiles doesn’t mean to blurt it out, but it’s true, so.

For some reason his dad doesn’t seem to believe him. “Sure, with your magic and stuff.”

“Oh my _god_.”

John actually starts smiling. “All that being said, seeing him when he’s not in the middle of a fight and when he’s sane, is . . . well, I guess I could say enlightening.”

Stiles glares at him. “What does that mean?”

“That _means_, Stiles, that I think I get it. Why you’re into him.”

“Why I’m into . . .? Wait, what does _that_ mean?”

John pats his shoulder. “You have a type, kid. Just be careful. And thanks for dinner, it was delicious.” He starts walking to the kitchen.

Stiles blinks for a moment. This has gone surprisingly well. It really has. He’s honestly in shock. “You can’t just leave me hanging! Dad! _Dad_.” He starts after him. “Answer me! And don’t even _look_ at those brownies!”

*

He meets Peter the following night for movies at Peter’s apartment, and the first thing out of his mouth is, “You can bake nice things for my dad, but not for me?”

Peter does a brief glance at the Tupperware in Stiles’ hands. He made lemon bars for Peter, sue him. He always brings him things, even when he has a bone to pick. Peter smiles and takes the box. “I want to be on his good side.”

“And you think being on my bad side is the way?” Stiles closes the door behind him and they walk into the apartment. “You’re dating _me_, remember?”

Peter opens the box and inhales. “Mmm. Lemon. Amazing.”

“Peter!”

Peter closes the box and leaves it on the breakfast bar. He turns around and puts his hands on Stiles’ waist. “Stiles. Sweetheart. It went well. Your father and I have a vested interest in being on your good side; of course we’re going to make nice. I’ll bring him food he wants to eat, and he won’t kill me. It’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” He leans in and nips Stiles’ ear. “By the way, I like your bad side too.”

Pleasure rolls through him, which he valiantly tries to ignore. “Peter. How are you so okay with last night?”

Peter looks confused. “Because it was fine. He said what he needed to, so did I, we understand each other better, no one got upset. Except you, apparently. What’s not okay?”

Stiles doesn’t know. He’s struggling to articulate it. “It’s . . . it was . . .”

Peter waits.

“We’ve been doing this thing for almost a year now,” Stiles blurts out. “Almost a year, and I keep waiting for something to happen, for one of us to really fuck it up somehow, and now you’ve met my dad, and that’s_ serious_, okay, it’s _serious_. I’m serious about this and about you and I keep thinking I’m going to scare you off if I say something about it, but apparently you can just meet my dad and get along with him, even when he goes all embarrassing and threatens you, and it’s fine for you? How are you so okay with meeting my dad, but not hearing me tell you that I love you?”

Peter’s frowning. His arms come further around Stiles until he’s holding him, one hand making slow circles on Stiles’ lower back. Stiles gulps in air, anxiety sizzling through him. He can’t take his eyes off Peter’s face.

“I know,” Peter says. “I’m taking this one step at a time. That’s why.”

There’s a long silence, then Stiles grips his arms. “I’m gonna need more than that.”

Peter sighs, but it’s thoughtful. Stiles waits.

“I’ve mentioned before that I struggle to see why you’re so invested in me and in us,” Peter says slowly. “I think I can pinpoint it to last year. I don’t know what happened exactly, but you seemed to figure out what you wanted from life, and one of the things you want is me. I don’t know why—beyond the obvious—but I’m going with it until this doesn’t work anymore. Until you don’t want me, or me you.”

Stiles opens his mouth but Peter quickly presses his fingers against it.

“Listen. I don’t do maudlin, I’m being realistic. I’ve been living one week at a time, one crisis at a time, since I regenerated. Dying puts certain things in a certain light. I would say my number one priority has been myself, and the people in the pack I consider mine.” Peter cups Stiles’ jaw. “This past year has made me rethink things. I’m going back into law. I’m thinking about the future and what it could look like. I’m watching you develop incredible abilities and I think you’re going to be magnificent. I want to stick around and that’s new. I'll be honest: love, feelings, relationships; they've always been secondary concerns to me. Love is something I manipulate in other people, something I can have if I was worthy and they were worthy and we trusted each other. Since—”

Stiles can’t stay quiet. “No. You don’t have to earn it. You _have _it.” He makes sure he’s looking Peter in the eyes as he speaks. “It’s not a case of being worthy or whatever, dude. You get it or you don’t. Everyone deserves it.”

Peter pulls a face. “I think that’s a matter of opinion. But let me finish. Since the fire, I thought I’d lost the capacity completely. Turns out, I haven’t. I'm rediscovering things. I know what you want to hear, but I want to say it and _mean it_, with everything in me. I’m not there yet. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” This is the most serious he’s ever seen Peter. This is the most he’s ever heard Peter say about himself and their relationship. He’s disappointed, but he’s not sad or angry about it.

Peter tilts his head. “You keep me on my toes in a way I didn’t expect. Sometimes I look at you and realise how young you are. Other times, like now, I feel like I have to catch up with you, like you’re ahead of me.”

“It’s not a race.” Stiles pulls him in close and wraps his arms around Peter’s neck, hanging back so he can still look at him.

“I know. That's why one step at a time." His arms tighten around Stiles. "I like the way we are.”

“I like the way we are too. I don’t want to change any of that. But I want to tell you my feelings. Okay, you’re not ready to say it back or whatever. I don’t expect that. But you’re not going to, like, get scared or run away or think I’m weak or something if I say it, right? Because that’s the vibe you’re giving off.”

Peter huffs. “I just explained how I’m rethinking everything. Perhaps relationships is one of those things, hm? Say what you want. I’m not going to think less of you, ever, for loving me or for being honest with me.”

Stiles realises he’s grinning now. “I love you.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I know.”

It takes a second to filter through. “Did you just Han Solo me?”

“Unintentionally, but yes.” Peter grins. “I’m not taking it back.”

“Oh my god, I just got Han Soloed.” And while Stiles kind of loves that he got Han Soloed, it’s not how he hoped it would go down. “With extra feelings. You have feelings. You’re so complicated. I think I’m going to faint.”

Peter lightly gropes his ass. “Don’t faint now. I just bared my soul to you. Comfort me by feeding me lemon bars and sucking my dick.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “We’re supposed to watch a movie.”

“We can’t do all three at once?”

“Not if it’s a movie I haven’t seen before.”

“I thought you loved me.”

Peter fake-pouts, and Stiles rolls his eyes, then kisses him as fiercely as he can.

*

For their first anniversary, they go back to Gino’s, and, without having mutually agreed this, bring gifts. Peter presents Stiles with a bubblegum-free cake and Star Wars Celebration package tickets, which sends Stiles into a twenty-minute freakout. Once he calms down, he hands Peter a symbol etched on paper. Peter looks it over and raises an eyebrow. “This looks like magic.”

Stiles nods. “It’s a spell that prevents burns.” He pats his tattoo against paper cuts—now joined by this one against burns. “I created and tested it myself. I want you to have it. Not necessarily in a tattoo,” he adds quickly, “it can be on a bracelet or necklace or something.”

Peter stares at the paper, then at Stiles. “And this definitely _works_?”

Stiles pulls out a lighter—he came prepared—and lights it up, then holds his finger over the flame. The pain is awful, but his skin doesn’t change at all. No damage at all. He grimaces. “Are you convinced yet? This hurts.”

Peter pulls the lighter away. “I’m convinced.” His face is soft. “You made this for me?”

“Yup.” Stiles puts the lighter away. “I know you have super quick healing and the physical burns were the least of the issues from the fire. I just, I noticed you don’t like fire and I thought having this might help.”

Peter takes his hand. “You noticed I don’t like fire.” He shakes his head. “Well. I’m. Thank you, Stiles.” He takes in the paper. “A tattoo is fine. It’ll heal over and no one will see it.”

Stiles grins. “Yeah? You want it on you?”

“I do.” Peter glances at the cake box and tickets next to Stiles. “Somehow this feels lacklustre in comparison.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Stiles has already freaked out about the tickets, but he’s all too happy to keep freaking out about it because they’re _VIP_ which means he gets _special treatment_ and _early access_ and _doesn’t have to queue for autographs_. He spends another half hour planning the best use out of them. Peter listens to him, chin in one hand, paper tucked carefully into his pocket, and a small smile on his face.


	39. Chapter 39

It’s the dark of night and Stiles is driving through the Preserve on one of the access trails, because of course he is. It’s early spring, it’s cold, it’s creepy, and he can barely see for shit on this trail. Peter’s in the passenger seat and Isaac’s in the back, both of them messing with their phones. Supposedly there’s something out here, something big and grunty, but they’ve been driving for over an hour and haven’t seen or heard anything.

“I’m calling it.” Stiles yawns. “Fuck this shit. I have work tomorrow.”

“Yeah, me too,” Isaac says, not lifting his gaze from his phone.

Peter makes a vague noise of agreement.

Stiles does a noisy U-turn and heads for the nearest paved road, head filled with plans. It’s just over two years to the day since the time travel incident. Stiles has added a couple more protection tattoos to his shoulder, and sees no reason to stop. A life without paper cuts, burns, and broken bones: hell _yes_. And, sure, okay he can’t stop _all_ damage to himself because bodies need to function in particular ways but there’s no way he’s not going to figure out as much preventative shit as possible. If he has the means, he’s gonna take them.

After all, nearly everyone in the pack has a couple of his tattoos now. Peter has suggested selling the generic ones online, just for the Beacon County area. Stiles is still thinking about it—after all, he’s relative newbie at this stuff still. His experiments take up multiple notebooks and several charred floorboards in his new apartment, and the final versions end up in his official spellbook, which is just the nicest notebook he could afford from Staples. The upside of living on his own—and there are many—is that he has a dedicated bookcase for magic work and reference books, but even so, he has way too many notebooks: one for protection spells, multiple for general notes on spellwork, the experimentation ones, homework Deaton sets him, the one containing the Incident, one on time travel, and multiple for plants. He needs to implement the fucking Dewey system, because half his life seems to be spent trying to find a specific detail across fifty gazillion sheets of paper.

Maybe he could rope Peter into tidying his library for him. Peter complains about the mess every time he comes over, though it hasn’t exactly stopped him. Which is good.

If he could nail down the latest symbol he’s working on, maybe he can convince Peter to have another tattoo done _and_ tidy the library. It’s not a bad—

A bellow shakes the air around them and Stiles jerks in his seat. “What the fuck?” He looks at the rearview mirror and sees something _big_ move in the trees behind them. He makes out one side of it. Maybe an arm?

Isaac’s staring out the back window. “I think we found the thing.”

“And it’s found us. Go faster.” Peter’s voice is grim.

Stiles scowls, grip tight on Roscoe’s steering wheel as he navigates through the trees. “Roscoe isn’t new and he’s not all-terrain, this is as fast as it gets without overturning.” This is a twisty dirt trail and they’re _this_ close from a full-frontal collision.

“It’s a Jeep, Stiles,” Peter snaps. “They’re literally built for offroading.”

“This is a _civilian_—” A dip or bump causes Stiles to hit his head on the ceiling. “Ow, motherfucking—look, my mom didn’t get this from the army, okay? Roscoe’s offroading days were like fifteen years ago!” He tries to go faster anyway, but it’s really not easy.

“It’s getting closer,” Isaac reports.

“Thank you, Isaac, for that super awesome helpful update.” Stiles grits his teeth. He’s close to the main road—there, he can see it through the trees. He floors the accelerator, jerks them through two final turns, and flies out onto the asphalt. He turns furiously and tyres screech as the Jeep aligns with the road—and yeah, _now_ they’re talking. Fast as lightning.

Well. Comparatively.

Peter’s talking on his phone. “—following us from the west. Yeah, we’re on the perimeter road now.”

Isaac makes a worried noise deep in his throat.

Stiles flicks his gaze up to the mirror and sees a huge humanoid thing lurch out of the trees far behind them. Its huge head turns and it starts running down the road after them. “Holy god, what _is_ that?”

“Keep driving,” Peter says.

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?!”

“Scott and Derek will meet us with back up near the quarry turnoff.” Peter squeezes his shoulder. “We’ll be okay until then.” He leans to watch in the side mirror.

Stiles brakes for a sharp turn, steers accordingly, then ramps up the speed out of the turn. Isaac and Peter push themselves away from the windows they were slammed against.

It’s straightish line now. Stiles keeps glancing between the road ahead and the gigantic slobbering thing cantering after them. There’s some distance between them, but not as much as Stiles would consider ideal, which would be more along the lines of, say, a continent. Fuck, he can see the drool flying from its head and it’s the middle of the fucking night.

“God, trolls are gross,” Isaac mutters.

Stiles’ blood runs cold. “What did you say?”

“Trolls are gross,” Isaac repeats. “Look at it. So drooly and warty, ugh.”

“I think you’re missing some key attributes,” Peter says, “like the teeth and rage and superhuman strength.”

“_Maybe_ I just didn’t want to focus on those things, Peter.”

Is he overthinking it or do the vibrations of the Jeep sound off? He’s probably over—

Something pops loudly, there’s a horrible grinding, rattling noise, and the Jeep slows down. Stiles’ jaw drops open as the accelerator does nothing except make noise. “Oh fuck.”

“What the—Stiles! Are you kidding me?” Isaac turns pale.

“Oh _fuck_.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Peter asks.

Stiles watches in horror as steam erupts from under the hood. “I don’t know.”

Isaac glances back then wrestles with his seatbelt. “Your fucking _car_, dude, I’m going to _kill you_.” Peter starts moving too. They scramble out, Isaac going via the back window.

Stiles ignores them in favour of sending his magic through it—but no, he can’t get a grip on it, too much metal, can’t start the engine, can’t push it, can’t make it do anything, his magic just slithers uselessly over it.

“Stiles! Get out!” Peter yells from the passenger side. “Mov—” A roar blocks his voice out.

Stiles has to be able to do something. He can’t leave Roscoe behind. He pushes with his magic, tries to get something _moving_—the tyres are rubber, surely he can move those—

Claws slash through his seatbelt and he’s dragged out of the Jeep. The troll is _right there_, right behind the car. He can smell it, dank and rot and heat. Stiles puts out his hand to blast it, but Peter slings him over one shoulder and starts running.

“Stop!” Stiles slaps his back. “Put me down!” He looks up to see the troll tear one door off the Jeep then the roof. “No! _Stop_!” He sends a pointed spear of magic at the troll—just after it swipes the Jeep away with a furious roar. The Jeep, now with dented frame and missing sides, smacks into two trees with enough force that one of them breaks. Parts fly. The magic cuts deep into the troll’s chest, and it bellows furiously, then launches after them. Blood joins the drool streaming from its body. Abruptly, trees block his view as Peter plunges into the Preserve.

He slumps down, shocked.

His car.

_His car_.

That was his _mom’s car_ and that thing just destroyed it. Stiles doesn’t realise he’s crying until he sees his tears fall past the hem of Peter’s shirt. Fuck that thing. Fuck it. He sends out his magic, feeling for it, and finds it almost immediately, staggering with speed after them. He tries to blast it with magic, but the trees between them take the brunt and disperse the blast. It’s also hard to focus when he’s being bounced over someone’s shoulder and that someone is dodging trees. Fuck’s sake. He wants it dead, he wants it gone, he wants it fucking disintegrated into nothingness—but when he tries to pull at the magic in the troll, nope, that doesn’t work either. He keeps losing focus, keeps crying.

Furious, he throws up his magic as a barrier, the troll barrels into it and is knocked out.

Unfortunately, that depletes him significantly.

Whatever, he’ll deal.

“I knocked it out,” Stiles says into Peter’s back.

“You sure?” Peter’s voice is snarly through fangs.

“Yeah.”

Peter finally stops and lowers Stiles to the ground, his chest heaving. Eyes blazing wolf blue, he howls. Stiles hears the others howl back in the distance. Isaac emerges from the trees to their side, also shifted.

“Stiles says it’s knocked out,” Peter pants. “We should finish the job.”

Isaac twists his mouth and nods.

“Stay here,” Peter says to Stiles. The wolves take off, and Stiles turns and starts walking, because fuck this shit. He recognises where he is, so he heads for the road. He’s going to find his Jeep and he’s going to fix it somehow and he’s never, ever, going to take it for granted again. He’s going to take his savings and fix it and tune it up and nothing bad is ever going to happen to it again.

He walks for a long time.

Eventually he makes it back to the site. The Jeep lies half in the broken wreckage of one tree, the frame warped, the roof somewhere in the trees, one door at the side of the road, and the other hanging off by one hinge. The windshield’s shattered, the bonnet’s open, and he has to step around various bits of metal and piping to get closer to it.

Like, half the frame is okay. Ish. Twisted. Full of dents. That’s salvageable, right?

And he’ll probably be able to find the roof again. Plus replacement windows.

His eyes catch on shiny parts he can’t name resting near his feet. One of them is cracked.

It’s not salvageable.

He reaches for his magic, but of course there’s next to nothing left. He can’t do anything about his car.

So he sits down on the asphalt and stares.

Like. Is this it?

Years and years of memories, mobility, adventures; eradicated with one swipe from an overgrown rock with legs. A number of seconds and bam, gone.

That’s not fair.

How is any of this fair?

And why, when he knew it would happen, didn’t he tune Roscoe up more? Why didn’t he take better care of the last thing his mom gave him? What was _wrong_ with him? He thought he had more _time_, thought this happened, like, _later_.

Plus he should’ve been able to do something. Him or Peter. He could’ve tried the tyres, tried the fucking _seats_, anything to get it moving away from the troll. Peter could’ve moved it away, right?

What the hell has Stiles been _doing_ since the stupid time travel thing anyway? Learning control and stopping paper cuts. Jesus Christ. Useless. Worthless.

What is his dad going to say?

He’s not sure how long he’s there for, but the next thing he knows, someone’s gripping his shoulder and yelling his name. “Stiles!”

He looks up. Peter stands over him, still shifted, and notably furious. “What the _hell_ were you thinking? I told you to stay put!”

Stiles blinks at him.

Peter leans down and pulls him to his feet. “You’re freezing. Dammit. Say something.”

Stiles looks back at the remains of the Jeep. Peter curses and puts his arms around him. Irritated, Stiles shrugs him off.

“Stiles, you need to warm up.” Peter pulls out his phone and calls someone.

Where the hell is his phone? Probably in the car. Stiles steps forward and starts looking. He finds his phone and wallet in the passenger footwell and takes them out in time for Peter to pick him up around the waist. “Put me down!”

“Oh, now you can talk.” Peter walks them back to the ground and settles Stiles on the ground, but doesn’t let him go. Stiles struggles. “Calm down.”

“Let me go! I don’t want you, I don’t want this, none of this is worth any of it.” Stiles pushes against Peter’s chest. It’s like pushing against granite. “Fuck you. Fuck _you_.”

“Stiles.”

“He’s gone. Roscoe’s gone.” Stiles gestures at the wreckage with one hand. “Look! Look at what that thing did. Oh my _god_.”

Peter hasn’t shifted back. “It’s dead, Stiles. Isaac and I took care of it before the morality police showed up. Why did you leave?”

Stiles scowls and pushes again at him. “You don’t tell me what to do!”

Peter snarls. “We have no idea if there are more trolls out here and you know better than to walk through the Preserve in the dark by yourself. Christ, Stiles, it’s just a _car_.”

White hot fury burns through him. “It’s not just a car! It’s my _mom’s_ car! There’s nothing left of her now, don’t you get it? She wanted me to have it and I didn’t take care of it and now it’s _gone_.” Stiles pushes again. “I should’ve stayed, I should’ve tried to move it a different way, just to get it out of the way, I wasted my magic—”

Peter’s staring at him like he’s crazy. “That troll would’ve flattened you too.”

“You don’t know that! And why didn’t you help?”

“It was seconds away from—”

“No, you, you, you just—” Stiles remembers how Peter cut his belt and yanked him out. “You interrupted me. You _stopped _me. Why the fuck did you do that? Why didn’t you shove it aside? Or attack it? You’re strong too! What the hell, Peter?”

“Well, excuse _me_ for saving your life,” Peter snaps. “I’ll make sure to skip that part next time.”

“There’s no point because my _car_ is _gone!_” Stiles grabs his hair. “What the fuck am I going to do? What am I going to tell Dad? Oh my _god_.”

Peter’s arms tighten. “Stiles. Snap out of it. You can get another one—”

“Roscoe is _irreplaceable_, you asshole! You wrecked my chances of saving him, you fucking asshole. I’m doing so much, I’m dealing with so fucking much, for _you_, and you can’t even push a fucking car out of the way.” On the one hand, Stiles is aware that what he’s saying is ridiculous and he’s mortified, but on the other, he’s so _angry_ about all of this.

“Uh, guys?”

Stiles shoves and Peter finally lets him go. He whirls around. “_What_?”

Scott is standing next to Boyd’s Land Rover. When did that get there? Who the hell cares. Stiles is done with tonight.

Scott looks worried, his gaze flickering between Stiles and Peter. “Let’s get this called in and you home.”

“What the fuck ever.” Stiles stomps over and gets in the back. Erica and Isaac are there, and Isaac tentatively puts one arm around him. Stiles closes his eyes and slumps into the warmth, ready for everything to just disappear. He hears Peter and Scott get in too, and he’s abruptly squashed between four werewolves. He doesn’t open his eyes to see who’s sitting next to him. Scott and Boyd talk in low voices and Stiles mentally switches off.

No one else says anything the rest of the trip back into town. When Boyd stops outside Stiles’ apartment, Stiles opens his eyes to see Peter getting out of the car on his side. He follows, then watches as Peter gets back in without a word.

Fine.

He goes home and showers, then gets into bed.

Sleep is a long time coming.


	40. Chapter 40

Stiles ends up barely sleeping because the doorbell wakes up him way earlier than he’d like, i.e. before lunchtime. Still, he thinks blearily as he stumbles to the door, being late to work wouldn't be a great start to today either.

His dad is at the front door, and while he clearly isn’t happy, the first thing he does is hug him. “Sorry, kid.”

Stiles hugs him back and grimaces into his shoulder. “Who told you?”

“Peter and Scott.” John lets him go. “But oddly enough, not you.” He steps inside and Stiles turns to make them coffee. “I can see why Peter told me to come over.”

Peter. Who isn’t here.

Because Stiles yelled at him.

Stiles groans and scrubs his fingers through his hair. “Dad, I’m not awake enough for this yet.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Not much.”

He gets ready while the coffee brews. His phone has a few messages, and the one from Peter just says, _We’ll talk later. Hope you’re sleeping._

Stiles can’t believe he said what he did. It’s one of the things running through his head on repeat. When he stumbles back into the kitchen, there’s a bagel ready for him as well as the coffee. His dad is sipping a mug in front of an empty plate. “You okay?”

Stiles shrugs. “Not really.”

John eyes him. “Uh-huh.”

Stiles picks up the bagel and starts eating it. He’s not sure he wants to start this conversation. Right now, in the sleep-deprived brightness of the morning, last night was nothing but a series of mistakes and bad decisions.

“Seems like last night was a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Stiles.” He reluctantly looks at his dad. John’s gaze is steady. “It’s just a car, kid.”

“It was hers, though.”

“I know. She loved that car, and I know you do too. But there is no way, absolutely _no way_, that she would have wanted you in danger to save the car.” John puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I guarantee you that if she was here, she wouldn’t give a shit about the car. You’re here and you’re okay, and that’s the most important thing.”

Stiles feels a stab of guilt. “Peter saved me. I wanted to magic the car, but I didn’t have time to make it work.”

“So it, what, it stalled on you?”

“It broke down in the middle of a chase. Uh, we were the ones being chased.” Stiles puts his bagel down. “I should’ve tuned Roscoe more, I should’ve treated him better, I _knew_—I knew better.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Stiles glares at him. “It kind of is, dad.”

John shakes his head. “Kid, the way you and your mother handled the Jeep, it’s honestly amazing it didn’t kick the bucket years ago. You’ve put it through how much supernatural stuff?”

He has a point. Before Scott was bitten, all Stiles did with the Jeep was drive around town. Since Scott’s been bitten, the Jeep has seen its mileage and dents skyrocket.

“It was an accident,” John adds.

“Yeah, okay, but . . .” Stiles takes a bagel crumb and crumbles it even tinier. “Like, it was hers, you know? And then it was mine. It was my thing with her. Ours. You know?” He’s so tired, his body seems to have no capacity to make any tears. He wants to cry though. “I feel like I lost my connection with her. Something that was just her and me.”

“Stiles. Come here.” John pulls him over into a hug. “I get it. I miss her every day.”

Stiles hugs him back and sighs into his shoulder.

John eventually lets him go. “Put your coffee in a travel mug. I’m your ride to work today, and we have a place to visit first.”

Stiles isn’t surprised when John drives to the Preserve. On the way there, Stiles catches up with the rest of his texts. Bro that he is, Scott called in the crash and his text reminds Stiles to contact his insurance company. Ha.

They stop at the crash site and John swears a little. They get out and walk through the shrapnel to the frame of the Jeep.

“Yep,” John says, “definitely better you got out. God. Stiles. Don’t ever, _ever_ put yourself at risk for a car. It’s not worth it. Jesus. I’m never letting you drive again.”

“You can’t give me rides forever.” Stiles kicks what looks like a door handle. “I’ll need a new car eventually. Why are we here? ”

John glances at him, then at the sky. “Grab what you can. This thing is going straight to a scrap yard once everyone else is done with it.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Grab something? Like what?”

“Whatever can be a memento for you.”

Oh man, that is genius. His dad is awesome. Stiles immediately starts going over the car and trying to collect things. License plates, the headlights, the steering wheel (which comes off worryingly easily), and a few things he’d left in the Jeep and forgotten about last night; these are things easy to find on the ground or remove. They stow the stuff in his dad’s trunk, take pictures of the wreck, then leave. On their way to the station, Stiles keeps turning one of the headlights—the central amber one—over in his hands. It’s not the same, but it’s something.

*

Work goes by in a blur.

*

Stiles: _Roscoe died last night_

Lydia: _Oh no. I’m sorry, I know you loved that car._

Lydia: _OH. Wait. This was one of the things! Right?_

Stiles: _yh_

Stiles: _this fucking sucks. It sucks more than it would’ve otherwise bc I KNEW this was coming. I thought it was later tho_

Stiles: _I regret not treating him better_

Lydia: _Future you didn’t give you a timeline?_

Stiles: _uh noooooo _

Stiles: _tho in this case it’s more like future peter didn’t give one_

Lydia: _In fairness, I wouldn’t have told you when either._

Stiles: _Why not?!!?_

Lydia: _Stiles. You literally know some bad shit is going down in Peter’s and your future. You looking forward to it? Would YOU have told you? _

Stiles: _I literally didn’t tell me anything, actually_

Stiles: _waiting for everything sucks_

Stiles: _I see your point_

Lydia: _Good. Oh man. Imagine seeing how upset you are over your car twice. _

Stiles: _is this u sympathising wi peter?_

Stiles: _Lydia_

Lydia: _Absolutely not._

Stiles: _I may have said some stuff I shouldn’t have to him_

Stiles: _like REALLY SHOULDN’T HAVE_

Stiles: _about what I’ve gone thru on his behalf that kind of thing_

Stiles: _I’m talking about the time travel thing_

Stiles: _as in I hinted at epic troubles and he’s gonna ask Lydia bc he notices shit like that_

Stiles: _I fucked up_

Lydia: _You’re actually worried about that? You? The guy who makes up excuses like breathing?_

Stiles: _I can’t lie to him!! _

Stiles:_ LITERALLY_

Lydia: _Did I say lie? Use your brain._

Lydia: _And make sure your new car has GPS, it’s gonna change your life._

*

His dad is working late, so Stiles asks Scott for a ride home. When he arrives on the motorbike, Stiles is lingering outside the station, staring at his phone. It’s the second day since Roscoe died, and Stiles still hasn’t seen or contacted Peter. He’s not sure when they started at least texting every day, but it’s been long enough that it’s weird they’re not doing it at the moment.

He glances up at the sky. Evening is getting later and later, and it’s nice to still see daylight. He wonders what Peter is doing right now.

“Hey.” Scott walks over to him, spare helmet in hand.

“Sup.”

“How you doing?”

Stiles puts the phone in his pocket. “Dude. I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse.”

Scott gives a relieved smile. “You sound more like yourself.”

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the night of the troll, and Stiles reaches out for a hug. “Bring it in, buddy.”

They hug, then Scott hands him the helmet. “I don’t have a ton of time, I’m meeting with more people who Liam thinks might be interested in being pack.”

“No more Theos,” Stiles says instantly. Scott has been meeting people sporadically over the last ten months, and so far two new wolves have joined his pack: Hayden who’s fierce and works in the parks service, and a shy accountant called Corey, who sometimes brings his boyfriend Mason with him on movie nights. Theo was one guy who was interested—very interested—in joining, but who’d ended up removed from consideration, thanks to being a total jackass. Scott says he ultimately didn’t work well with the rest of the pack, but Stiles maintains that it’s because Theo was a jackass of high jackassitude.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Get on the bike already.”

They drive right to Stiles’ building and Stiles hops off the bike. “I don’t know how you drive that thing, dude.” He wrestles the helmet off. “Do you know how many people die in motorbike accidents?”

Scott shrugs. “Not human anymore. Statistics don’t apply to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Super healing isn’t all that great.”

“We can still die, dude.” Scott’s eyes go soft. “None of us can fuck around. Isaac and Peter told me exactly what happened and I saw the Jeep. I know you’ve got crazy stupid powers, but that's not an excuse to take stupid risks.”

Stiles waves him away. “I got the lecture from my dad already. And I _know_, okay? I wanted to save Roscoe, I couldn’t leave him. But I just . . . I needed _time_.” He’s sure he could’ve done _something_ amazing if he’d just had time to think about it. The thing is, he’s had some time now and he’s not come up with much. It’s stupid, he knows magic doesn’t work on metal—

But wait, what spells did he cast on the rental car in Maine? Because he _did_ cast spells on the rental. The spells were in the primer. And Paul had cast spells on Bowen’s Jeep too.

What’s he missing?

“I don’t think you had that,” Scott says gently.

“Yeah.” He watches Scott store the spare helmet. “I don’t think I did either.”

His eye catches on Scott’s bike. The frame is metal, yes, but the mirrors are glass or plastic. The seat is leather, which is natural. So are the tyres. Right? Tyres are rubber and he’s pretty sure rubber is a natural substance. What had he tried with Roscoe? The engine, but nothing had caught. He’d focused on the engine, then on the frame. He’d been panicked, of course those had been the wrong parts to target. The tyres might’ve worked. He should experiment with someone else’s car. Or his next one.

Scott finishes and reaches over to pat Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. He died in the line of duty.”

Stiles wells up at that for some reason. “Thanks. I still should’ve taken better care of him.”

“He was pretty old, dude. Duct tape only goes so far.”

Oh man, why the hell did he rely so much on duct tape? What kind of asshole was he?

Scott looks alarmed. “Stiles. Buddy. I didn’t mean to . . . Look, he basically needed an entire new engine. And suspension. He’s from, like, the 80s. It’s incredible he lasted as long as he did.”

Stiles sniffs. “I guess so.”

“I’m gonna miss him too. I can’t picture you without the Jeep.” Scott smiles encouragingly. “Hey, maybe we can do a memorial or something for him. What do you think?”

He likes that idea. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be good.”

“Okay. We’ll organise something.” Scott leans in. “I didn’t mention it earlier, but Peter was somewhere near the station when I picked you up. I think he’s been checking on you.” He makes a face. “Ugh. I think I can smell him here too. Such a stalker. Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet,” Stiles admits.

“Maybe do that. Derek says he’s been a touchy asshole the last two days.” Scott grins at him. “Though, seeing Peter Hale care about anyone except himself . . . Never thought I’d see the day. Wow. I’m glad he got you out.”

“I am too! Obviously.” Stiles just hasn’t figured out what to say to him yet. He does want to see him, so much, _so freaking much_. But how can he explain himself? God, he’d ranted like a lunatic. “I’ll message him.”

Scott pats his shoulder again. “You got this. I’ll see you later.”

He drives off, and Stiles watches him go, wondering—not for the first time—how this is his life. He fires off a text to Peter asking him to come over, then heads up to his apartment.


	41. Chapter 41

Later that evening, there’s a knock on his door. Stiles puts his latest attempt at cupcakes on the coffee table in his tiny living room, then heads over to the door, stomach roiling.

When he opens it, there’s Peter standing with a pie in his hands, face carefully composed. He looks so good that Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” both of them say at once.

Stiles gapes at him. “You’re _what?_”

Peter frowns. “Don’t be _that_ surprised. Wow, Stiles. Here.” He shoves the pie into Stiles’ hands.

Stiles looks down in shock while Peter steps around him. The pie is warm, with a beautifully golden brown and flaky-looking crust. There’s a leaf design on the top—a _design_. In _pastry_. Apples and cinnamon waft up to him. He shuts the door and turns around. “You made me apple pie?”

Peter is looking at the cupcakes. “Apple and salted caramel, actually.”

Holy god. Stiles puts the pie down next to the cupcakes. “You made me something.” And, again, he’s not playing around.

“So did you.” Peter’s holding one now. “Basil and pineapple. Really?”

Somehow Stiles keeps forgetting just how good werewolf senses are. “They’re good!”

Peter sighs. “I know. I can smell it’s fresh basil. Dammit.” He takes a bite and makes an appreciative noise. “What are you apologising for?”

Stiles sits down on his cheap sofa. “You saved my life and I shouted, like, garbage at you. Not my best moment.”

Peter puts the half-eaten cupcake back on the plate and starts marching to the kitchen. “And I perhaps could’ve been a bit more, ah, _understanding_ when you were clearly out of your—uh, when you were upset.”

Stiles snorts.

Peter returns and hands him a fork. “Isaac may have spoken to me about it.”

Isaac? Really? That’s not who Stiles would’ve expected.

Peter sits on the floor next to the coffee table. “Apparently the right response isn’t utter fury at how you put yourself in danger for a _car_. Eat the pie.”

There’s a quiet moment while Stiles turns the fork over between his fingers. “I really fucking love my Jeep. No, I didn’t handle the other night well, but it’s not just a car.”

Peter takes the fork from him and stabs it into the middle of the pie. “Really? Because as far as I was aware, you thought duct tape and belief were an adequate substitute for a mechanic through high school. That thing was a liability waiting to happen.” He loads up a large amount of steaming apple, gooey caramel, and pastry.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, my dad and I aren’t exactly rolling in cash right now, let alone when I was in high school and _not earning anything_.” When Peter starts pointing the pie-laden fork at him, Stiles puts out his hand to stop him. “Forty-year-old Jeep, dude. Maintenance is expensive.”

Peter glares at him. “And your life is worth how much, exactly?” He visibly forces himself to calm down. “Okay. Look, it wasn’t your fault the car failed in the middle of danger. No one could’ve predicted that.”

“Exactly.” Stiles’ stomach _churns_.

Peter’s eyes narrow. “Right?”

“My dad pointed out that it was only a matter of time,” Stiles says quickly, “and, I mean, I can’t exactly deny that. I think I knew time was running out for Roscoe. I didn’t know it would be _then_ though.”

Peter nods slowly and drops the fork back in the pie. “You couldn’t. None of us could. But Stiles, what the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you move?”

“_Because_, it’s not just any car, it’s my mom’s car, and she’s gone, and now Roscoe’s gone, and it’s like she’s gone even more than she already was.” Stiles’ hands have knotted together somehow, and he can’t quite look Peter in the face as he speaks. This doesn’t feel like something he can admit to him. He feels almost like a kid.

Peter leans in and puts his hands on Stiles’ knees. “Stiles. You think I don’t get it?” Stiles makes himself meet Peter’s eyes. His gaze is intense, and his hands are heavy, and there’s a strange electricity in the air that has nothing to do with magic. “Besides Derek and Cora, the Hale vault is all that’s left of my family. The people I loved and grew up with are gone, and there’re just a few things to remember them by. It’s not enough and it’s never enough. One big lesson I learned from the fire isn’t to use _things_ as a way to remember people. Things break. They rot away.” He squeezes Stiles’ knees. “Memories are better. Photos are better. Living well for them is better. _Living_.”

Oh hell. “You still grieve for them?”

“Every day.”

“I never realised.” They’re too far away from each other. Stiles slides off the sofa onto Peter’s lap and into his arms. “How do you hide it?”

Peter pulls him in close. “Oh, go on a murderous rampage and seek revenge against everyone involved in their deaths, then never speak of them again to anyone.”

Stiles scoffs. “Sounds good for you, but that’s not really my style.” He rubs his thumbs along Peter’s neckline and watches Peter’s eyes darken. “Yelling at you seems to be my style.” He remembers what he said—mostly, he thinks some of the details are blurred by now—and it wasn’t good. He studies Peter’s face, the crinkles now etched permanently in the corners of his eyes and the now-familiar curve of his lips and nose. Guilt and love rush up.

He can’t do this.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he blurts. “I can’t keep doing this. To you. Oh my god.”

Peter’s hold tightens. “Is this is related to what you said the other night?”

“You’ve lost so much already. Holy shit, I’m such an asshole. Peter, you shouldn’t be with me. I’m going to get you hurt and it’s not fair.”

His jaw tightens. “What do you mean? Have you been doing something bad?”

Stiles shakes his head. He and Lydia haven’t gotten very far with their research. There’s nothing to relate, not yet. “Nothing. Just . . . magic. Research. And I’m talking about stuff in the future. We’re going to be in a shitty, fucked-up, very bad situation in the future and it’ll be my fault and you’re going to suffer and I can’t do it to you, I just can’t.”

Now Peter just looks bewildered. “Stiles. Seriously. Not following.”

“I mean . . .” he gestures wildly, “if I keep going with what I’m doing, with magic, there will be more situations like the other night, where we’ll be in danger because of what _I do_, and you can’t control it and it’s not fair to you.”

Peter is staring at him like he’s crazy. “Stiles.”

“I mean it!” Stiles grips him tightly. “I don’t want you in danger. I can’t do that to you. We need to stop.”

Peter covers his mouth. “Shut up. Mother of god.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them again and glares at him. “Listen to me. My life has been full of dangerous situations since I was born. That’s life in the supernatural world, sweetheart. Being with you doesn’t change that for me, you got that? So what if you get me involved in something dangerous? You think I won’t go into danger on my own? That I don’t already put myself into, ah, situations of dubious legality?”

Stiles tries to say, “Like what?” but Peter’s hand doesn’t budge.

“You’re turning into an amazing spellcaster. The writing’s on the wall. I know people are going to involve you in shenanigans, whether you like it or not, and I’ll have to rescue you from them, whether either of us like it or not.” He grins, wide and slightly feral. “I’d rather be in a shitty situation with you than without you. Got it?”

Stiles reluctantly nods.

“I’m not breaking up with you. And I’m definitely not interested in whatever misplaced sense of responsibility you have about me and danger. Thanks, but I can look after myself, and you, and I _want to_.” Peter moves his hand. “Is this what you meant? How you’re dealing with so much for me?”

Stiles doesn’t know where to begin. He should tell him about the time travel. But that would sound ludicrous now, like an excuse. And of course he’s thought about the things he yelled, and half of them were him being upset in the moment. Peter isn’t making him deal with anything, _he’s_ making himself deal with this. All this time travel shit is self-imposed. Lydia was right: he’s chosen Peter and he’s pretty sure that comes with the future he’s been through.

And now it looks like Peter’s chosen him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know you’re going to be in danger. Like the other night, like stuff we’ve dealt with in the past, there’s going to be more of that. I _know_ it. And I don’t want you to go through it. And I wasn’t in a good place,” he adds. “I didn’t mean most of what I said.”

A smile touches the edges of Peter’s mouth. “I think I can let it go, given how upset you were.” His expression grows serious again. “Yell at me all you want, but I’m always going to prioritise you. Do you understand? Don’t you ever, _ever_ gamble with your life. I was about to run but I realised you weren’t getting out and I couldn’t believe it. You’re too smart for that. For fuck’s sake, Stiles.” He pulls Stiles tight against him, wrapping him up with arms and legs. Stiles hugs him back, relief pouring through him. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He leans his head against Peter’s and sinks into the hug, guilt running through him. “I thought I had time. I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re powerful, but not even mages can freeze time.” Warm fingers brush through his hair. “You’re an idiot. Don’t ever do that again.” His voice is strained. “It’s just a _car._”

Stiles wants to see what expression is on his face, but literally can’t move. Peter’s grip is too tight. He rubs one cheek against Peter’s hair. “I know. My dad read me the riot act. So did Scott, a bit.”

“Good. Listen to us.”

They sit there for a long time. Stiles gets comfortable and runs his hands over Peter’s back and neck, into his hair. Peter seems to need some time scenting him back.

Eventually, Stiles pulls back so he can look at Peter, and Peter lets him. “My dad and I collected some stuff from Roscoe.” There’s a small pile on the other side of the sofa, waiting for Stiles to get creative. “So he’s still around, even if he can’t take me places anymore. And Scott wants to hold a memorial for Roscoe.”

Peter facepalms. “Oh my god. _Scott_ wants to. Sure.” He lowers his palms, his gaze going distant. “The crazy thing is, this isn’t a deal-breaker. What’s happened to me?”

Stiles pokes his shoulder. “Hey. You’re doing so well. You’re good at this.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“You are!” Stiles kisses him, short and sweet. “Thanks.”

Peter looks aside. “I suppose I’m flattered. Are you going to eat the pie now? It’s getting cold and I used brown butter in it. You need to appreciate it.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

That gets Stiles an eyebrow raise. “Mmm. It could be. It’s been a while since we had sex on the floor.” He glances around and makes a face. “I remember why now. When was the last time you cleaned in here?”

“Today!”

Peter snorts and reaches over for the fork. He brings it to Stiles’ mouth. “Here. Eat.”

“I didn’t realise how—” Pie gets shoved into his mouth and Stiles quickly chews before he chokes. Flaky, toasty pastry falls apart into warm, sour apple and gooey, salty caramel. There’s a hit of cinnamon and ginger, and under all of it, a sweet nuttiness that Stiles guesses is the brown butter. “Oh my god,” he groans. “That’s so good. Marry me.” He takes the fork and reaches for the pie again.

Peter helps him pick it off the table, but keeps him on his lap. “I’ll consider it.”

Stiles freezes, pie in one hand and fork poised in the other. “Seriously?”

Peter tilts his head. “You know what? I think I am. Having you with me for the rest of my life isn’t the worst thing I’ve heard today.”

Stiles blinks at him, then scoffs. “Yeah, okay. We can continue this discussion _if_ we’re still together in five years.” He continues loading the fork.

“That seems a little long.”

“Unbelievable.” Stiles takes another bite. “You’re the one who’s gone from _I need time_ to _let’s get married_.”

“That was months ago. And don’t speak with your mouth full. God, you call _me_ an animal.” Peter smirks at him, but it’s soft. “Something about pulling you from certain death woke me up to some realities.”

Stiles starts to smile. “Like?”

“Like, I can’t imagine life without you. And I don’t want to. And, as much as I still can, I love you.” Peter makes a face, but moves his hands under Stiles’ shirt. They're warm and sure, sending thrills up Stiles' spine. “Can we get to the make-up sex now?”

Stiles drops the pie, throws the fork aside and kisses him so fiercely that Peter ends up on his back.

“You love me.” Stiles can’t stop grinning. “Even after the other night. Even after _tonight_. Oh my god, I’m so lucky.”

“Shut up and you’ll get even luckier.” Peter tugs at Stiles’ shirt and they quickly start removing clothes. 

*

The next morning, over a breakfast of leftover pie, Stiles mentions he needs a ride to work.

Peter pulls out his phone. “I started shortlisting cars the other day. Tell me which one you like and I’ll get it for you.”

Stiles stares at him, then shakes his head in disbelief. “I meant can you drive me to work, not buy me a car.”

Peter looks unconvinced. “Are you sure? Because I like quality and you like deathtraps. No more deathtraps. It’s easy for me to just buy one.”

Stiles pinches himself, making sure he’s actually awake. “Wow, rude. It’s easy for me to buy one too? What the hell? And I didn’t buy Roscoe, by the way, I inherited him.”

“Well, the offer’s there.” Peter grins. “I can’t wait to see you handle automatic shift and an engine that starts first time. Mind-blowing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up.”

Stiles watches Peter gripe with a new sense of calm and excitement. Nothing about this sits perfectly with him, but he tried. He can’t deny that this is one of the best mornings he’s ever had. The sun’s streaming through his grimy apartment window and is bringing out the dark gold in Peter’s hair. Stiles is pleasantly sore and in love and is loved. His coffee is brewed perfectly this morning. Peter’s here and he’s happy too.

“Judging by the scents coming off you,” Peter adds, “would now be a good time to admit I’ve been running various things across the county borders?”

Stiles freezes, coffee mug halfway to his face. “Uh. What? And why?”

“Beacon Hills is full of things, some of which we kill, more of which _I_ kill, and there’s a very active black market for supernatural parts and components. I bury some of the bodies, but others I just sell.” Peter waves dismissively. “That’s not the important part. The important part is that lately people have been asking about you. Or, specifically, a type of magic they’re sensing here.”

Stiles is staring at him. “Oh my god. Is this what you did with the troll? This is what you do when you disappear for days at a time?”

“I did it for Talia, and I’m doing it now for Derek.” Peter leans in. “It’s part of a left hand's duties.”

Stiles’ mind is going in five hundred directions at once. He can’t believe Peter has hidden this—well, not _hidden_, he’s always been on clean-up duty, so to speak—that this is the first time he’s mentioned this. “Wait, is this what Dad . . . My dad’s _caught_ you?”

And now Peter looks uneasy. “A number of times.” There’s a long pause. “Are you processing or are you reforming your opinion of me?”

Stiles squeezes his hand. “Processing. For sure that one.” Which means in turn . . . “This isn’t a deal-breaker. Oh my god. What’s happened to _me_?”

Peter exhales. “Good. My point is that people have been asking about a power source and I think they mean you.”

“In a bad way?”

“In a way I don’t like.” Peter reaches over and takes Stiles’ hand. “I play stupid, or tell them it’s Deaton or the nemeton. I’m going to keep doing that, but whatever you’re working on lately, ease up or hide it. Or cast that protective wall spell already.”

“Okay.”

Peter blinks. “Okay? Really?”

Stiles takes him in. His Peter. Hides the bodies, spends like no tomorrow, bakes like a god, likes his coffee black, and protects without hesitation. “Yeah. Really.” And he means it.


	42. Chapter 42

Stiles: _there’s going to be a memorial for roscoe_

Lydia: _I have finals coming up, I send my love and regrets._

Stiles: _liar_

Stiles: _peter and I are solid_

Stiles: _SOLID_

Stiles: _I tried breaking up wi him & he was like no way_

Stiles: _we’re never breaking up_

Stiles: _Lydia its ride or die_

Stiles: _hes so amazing_

Lydia: _Ugh. I knew this would happen. You’re in it now._

Lydia: _Interesting that you tried to break up with him but it didn’t work. Very interesting. Does this count as a fixed timeline asserting itself? I think so._

Stiles: _wow rude_

Stiles: _he WANTS to stay wi me excuse you_

Stiles: _he loves meee <3_

Stiles: _but now that I think about it I guess? Maybe? I definitely wanted to in the moment_

Stiles: _anyway I keep finding potential plants right now_

Stiles: _such is the power of love_

Stiles: _my research excels_

Stiles: _apparently lilies are connected to the fabric of reality_

Stiles: _strong connection to death so strong connection to life_

Stiles: _and life is connected to time_

Lydia: _Tenuous, but I’ll take it. I’ll log it for the herbal spell._

Lydia: _Have you read the Dettler paper yet?_

Stiles: _yh will send notes later_

Lydia: _Btw there’s a supernatural community conference happening later this year, before E+B’s wedding. Spellcasters-specific. We should go._

Stiles: _hells to the yeah_

Lydia: _A simple yes suffices._

Stiles: _funny, peter says the same thing_

*

The memorial is beautiful and touching, and everything a memorial for a dear departed friend should be. They hold it in the Stilinski backyard, as no one wants to go back to the Preserve and the scrap yard isn’t exactly atmospheric. Stiles sniffles throughout and sheds some very manly tears but otherwise keeps it together. He relates stories about his mom driving him around in the Jeep as a kid, and how John handed the Jeep over to him saying his mom wanted him to have it and the first thing Stiles did in it was drive it into a ditch. Everyone shares a story about Roscoe and they give Stiles a framed photo of him and the Jeep, then they have a barbecue. No one says anything mean or sarcastic, not even Peter. It’s a nice evening.

Stiles does eventually get a new car. It’s a lump of crap by anyone’s standards—especially by Peter’s—but it gets him from point A to B with a lot less trouble than Roscoe did, so it’s a win. Plus he can deal some damage while trying his magic on it without feeling too guilty.

And yeah, GPS and working suspension are magical. Without the magic part. It’s kind of cool stepping into the twenty-first century.

**Findings from initial car tests – a list by Stiles Stilinski**

  * plenty of metals are in cars yes BUT
  * also plenty of plastic, glass, fabric, paint, rubber
  * tyres are a mix of rubber and threads of metal
  * tyres can be manipulated, but not well (galling. R possibly saved without troll present + enforcing shitty time crunch I WAS RIGHT. control requires much practice.)
  * glass works surprisingly well, provided strong + secure enough to move entire frame
  * paint coat is best due to the surface area and material. (requires much concentration but is most reliable. use for rental protection in future)

He creates more protection spells. He maybe forces Peter to get a few more, because he’s now on a freaking _roll_ with this stuff.

And in particular, he starts working on a very particular blocking spell. He wants to stop crazy shit getting into the town. No more Roscoe-level sacrifices thank you very much, not now, not ever again. The amount of magic needed to power such a barrier is immense and way beyond his internal well, which is fine, actually. He thinks the ley lines can be hijacked to power the spell indefinitely—he’s certain they can be—so that’s not the main problem. No, the big difficulty is that normal people need to drive in and out of the town, the supernatural people who call Beacon Hills home need to live there without being bothered or accidentally kept out if they leave, and certain supernatural visitors do come and go without bothering people. It’s a lot of variables in one spell.

He’s puzzling over it one night, when Peter sets down a mug of tea and says, “You seem to be struggling.”

Stiles glares up at him. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

“What list is that?”

Stiles looks down at the list he’s been poring over. He’s got the supernaturals listed by desired, dubious, and verboten species/types. It feels speciesist. “The people and entities that need to be kept out of Beacon Hills.”

“Uh-huh. Looks really complicated.”

“It is. It’s too complicated.” Stiles sighs and slumps in his chair. “This isn’t a joke. I need to stop things coming here and destroying our hospital.”

“I suspect I’m going to regret this, given my side hustle, but what draws them here?” Peter asks.

Stiles squints at him. “You know that. The nemeton.”

“Okay. Wouldn’t it be easier to block the nemeton from the outside world, than to block the outside world from the nemeton?”

Oh god.

Holy mother of all nemetons.

That’s so simple. Why didn’t he _realise_ that?!

“Genius.” He gets to his feet and grabs Peter’s face. “Genius! You beautiful werewolf you!”

Peter actually preens. “I try.”

He kisses Peter’s forehead then sits back down and starts scribbling furiously.

And a month later, he takes a week off to walk around Beacon Hills, drawing a very thin line of carrier oil on the ground. Oil will seep into the earth, help connect the spell with the ley lines and is hard to remove once there. Even when the oil eventually breaks down, the earth and rock will keep the spell going. Once done, he casts the spell, and just like that, the nemeton’s magical call is blocked from outside the city limits.

Just like that, troublesome creatures stop showing up.

Two months into peace and quiet, Stiles realises that the pack hangs out just to be together, and not to discuss the monster of the week. He spends his free time researching less to get rid of a threat and more for magic practice and time travel understanding. And Peter’s side hustle dries up to next to nothing—though he still goes on trips to “check up on contacts,” according to him. Sure. Importantly, Stiles notices legal textbooks arriving at Peter’s place.

*

At the spellcasting conference, Stiles discovers he’s kind of in his element. He, Lydia, and Deaton attend seminars about fusing spells with materials and subvocal casting and runes and creating magic through drumming and music. Notably, there’s nothing about time travel. Still, it’s all fascinating and he hardly stops taking notes. Word about his tattoos and massive blocking of Beacon Hills has spread, and whenever he sits down somewhere, eventually he gets someone asking him questions and buying a tattoo spell off him. He gets used to writing down the spell components in a very specific way, to ensure it’s replicable by other casters during the tattooing process.

Peter’s activities prior to the blocking spell lie at the back of Stiles’ mind. No one asks searching questions about any strange power sources or activities in Beacon Hills, but he does notice that there’s interest in the town generally.

One evening, in the bar of the hotel hosting the conference, Stiles is explaining to yet another group of druids how he infused the oil circle with the spell when Lydia leaves to buy them drinks. One druid pipes up to ask about how the spell would sustain itself.

“The nemeton wanted this in place,” Stiles explains. “So I knew it would be okay to connect the spell with the ley lines. They’ll keep it fuelled perpetually.”

There’s a soft intake of breath that would be immensely satisfying if Stiles hadn’t already heard it like ten times over the last three days.

“I knew ley lines were important to the wellbeing of nemetons and to land and magic in general, but I’ve never heard of a spellcaster who _isn’t_ tied to the land using them to perpetually fuel an area spell like this,” one guy says.

Stiles nods. “Not, like, _directly_, or without permission, but yeah, they’re a potential source of energy. Handle with care though, you know?”

“Amazing.” The guy taps something into his phone, then stands up, looking excited, and rushes away. Stiles watches him go, frowning. There’s something familiar about him.

“Don’t mind Rob,” a druid near him says, “he’s got ley lines on the brain. So how did you build this particular spell?”

Stiles’ brain catches on _Rob_ and he keeps staring at the departing guy’s back. Rob. That . . . would be a coincidence and a half. He looks over at Deaton, who smiles gently at him. “I believe Sarah asked you a question, Stiles?”

“Uh.” Another beer is plunked in front of him by Lydia, who then takes a seat next to a good-looking mage from the south. Stiles tries to catch her eye but fails. “Thanks, Lydia. Anyway. Uh. The spell. Yeah, I . . .”

*

Boyd and Erica’s wedding at the end of summer is beautiful. Stiles makes blossoms float down from the sky during the ceremony, Isaac and Lydia only cry a little, Derek gives a good speech at the reception, and everyone gets sloshed on wolfsbane brew. It’s been almost half a year without something creeping into Beacon Hills and the packs trust Stiles’ spell. Life lets them have days like this now.

During one of the slow numbers, Peter pulls Stiles out onto the dance floor and starts a slow waltz with him. Stiles is pretty sure it’s meant to be romantic, but he has to watch his feet constantly to make sure he doesn’t step on Peter’s, so the moment is a little diminished.

“If you could give me your attention for a moment,” Peter finally says, “I want to tell you something.”

Stiles looks up. “Okay, but they’re your feet.”

“I just got—ow—confirmation about my bar exam. Next spring.” Peter gives a small smile. “No refunds, take-backs or exchanges.”

Stiles grins back at him. “Well damn. This is happening. You with a qualification. Again. Shit, you in _gainful employment_. I can hardly believe it.”

“I _can_ believe he’s gonna be a lawyer,” Derek snarks as he moves past them with Lydia.

“No more running around the woods with me,” Stiles says before his brain catches up with him.

“I’ll truly miss almost dying every other week.” Peter lifts one hand and brushes something out of Stiles’ hair. “Actually, it won't be that intense. I’ll still join you for some of your expeditions, just not all of them.”

Stiles has been asked by a number of druids and spellcasters on the west coast to visit and cast protections on houses or small towns. Often something creeps up on them and he and Peter have to deal with it, but so far they’ve managed everything with minimal tears and stress. The protection tattoos really work, and they’re becoming something of a speciality of his. Deaton has helped him figure out what he can charge for services like that.

Plus he’s learning new kinds of magic now, like divining and scrying, seeing what people are doing in other places. He’s got a good feeling that’s going to help with the time travel research. He’s not sure how, but he thinks it will.

But this. This is Peter moving onto something new, something more established. And _legal_. Stiles thinks it’ll be good for him to have work that’s just for him again.

Stiles beams at Peter. “You’re going to destroy the world via loopholes and technicalities, and I can’t wait.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually looking forward to getting back into the rat race.”

“Rat race? More like you’ll be the one spinning the wheel for everyone else.” Stiles shakes his head. “You don’t need the money, just the challenge and influence.”

Peter’s hand moves across his lower back and brings him in closer. “I don’t particularly _need_ it, but it’s one thing I want.”

Stiles tries to read him. Peter seems to be reflective today, but Stiles isn’t sure what direction it’s going in. “I know. Power comes in a bunch of forms and you miss it.”

Peter’s eyes widen, then he smiles, a little twisted and dark. His voice lowers. “And you thought we should break up. God. You’re perfect.”

“Finally, you’re with the program.”

“I should listen to you more.”

“Obviously.” Stiles leans in. “Anything else I can help with?”

They gaze at each other, swaying gently to the music. Peter turns amused and leers. “Certain things, always.” That hand presses down, warm and promising. Stiles only stumbles a little.

*

Lydia holds up a mug. “Do you like this one?”

Stiles glances over. “Uh, _yeah_. The Gravity Falls mug is off-limits. Duh. Use the one with the kittens, I hate it.”

“I thought Erica got you that?”

“She did. That’s not stopping me.” The mug has a bunch of kittens with _pussy lover_ on it in bubbly writing. If anything gets warped, disappeared, destroyed, or otherwise altered, it’s going to be this one.

She rolls her eyes. “Gravity Falls is more thematically appropriate, but whatever.”

She takes it off the shelf and sets it on the kitchen counter. Stiles has numerous herb spells in bundles, ready for burning. While she’s in town for the wedding, they decided to experiment with the ingredients they’ve decided have the right properties for time travel. Their first few attempts did nothing. Finally they got a Beacon Hills High School mug to completely disappear—however, it hasn’t reappeared yet, so they need a new mug.

Lydia takes the next bundle from Stiles and, with a nod from him, burns it and focuses on the mug.

The bundle burns out.

The mug doesn’t change.

Then, abruptly, it’s in pieces across the counter. They jump back.

“Holy crap.” Stiles picks up his laptop and logs the result. “Broken mug.”

“It might just be a break, not anything else,” Lydia says.

“Yeah, but there wasn’t any sequence to it breaking. It changed states instantly; even spontaneous breaks have a sequence.”

“You have a point.” Lydia’s crossed her arms and is frowning. “This is difficult. I’m not sure we can apply the scientific method to magic. There’s no clear cause and effect.”

He keeps typing.

“Stiles! Look!”

He looks up to see the mug, whole, on the counter. “Wait. What?”

She’s grinning. “It changed back! This is magic-induced all right. Log it!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He dutifully logs it. “But why was it broken?”

“A future state, probably.”

“But we tried to get it to go into the past. And it’s the future now, and it’s not broken.” He scratches his head. “I don’t think this counts as a success.”

She wags one finger. “It’s _something_, Stiles, which is definitely a success.”

He’s not convinced, but they keep trying their other bundles on other items—to ensure they track their attempts accurately—until they’re out of spells and the counter is covered in things. Nothing else changes as dramatically, so Stiles makes a note of the ingredients used for the BHHS and kittens mugs. Progress.

They’re clearing the kitchen counter when Scott arrives to hang out. He starts helping them, but gets distracted and drops the kittens mug, which shatters across the floor. His face drops. “Oh, no, Stiles, I’m sorry—”

Lydia squeals with excitement and Stiles whoops. They hug, then crowd around Stiles’ laptop and make notes. Stiles waves absently at Scott. “Don’t worry, dude.”

“Uh. But I broke your mug?”

“Accidentally, right?” Lydia asks him.

Scott’s eyes go wide. “Of course! Oh my god, I’d _never_—”

“Then it’s fine,” she says.

Stiles ignores them and keeps typing until he hears Scott mutter something about their weirdness and decides to clean up the broken mug.

*

Peter passes the bar with flying colours and starts working at a law firm in downtown Beacon Hills. Stiles rewards him with the fanciest cake he knows how to make, a can of whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and a very long evening in bed.

Scott qualifies as a veterinarian and starts practising for actual full-time paychecks. He flashes red eyes at Stiles when he declares that Scott’s a real boy now.

Erica announces she’s pregnant.

Lydia graduates with honours and immediately rolls into a flashy legal job in New York.

Stiles earns a hefty chunk of money from a pack in Arizona for flushing out some nasty skinwalkers, and for the first time thinks he might actually be able to make a career out of this. The first thing he does with the money is make a few informed bets on the outcomes of certain elections in the future, and purchase certain shares.

Life seems reasonably settled.

Then Liam disappears.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know jack about car manufacturing, don't @ me. 
> 
> Also: sorry.

Stiles whips around. “What was that?”

Peter sighs. “I didn’t hear anything, therefore _you_ didn’t hear anything.”

“Same,” Isaac, Hayden, and Scott chorus.

“I _didn’t_ hear anything, I felt it.” Stiles focuses. It happens again, a brush of magic.

They’ve tracked Liam to an industrial complex on the edge of Reno. Fucking _Reno_. It’s only been two days since he was taken, but the wolfnappers have made it that far. They know it’s another pack, but they’re not sure which one or what their beef is with Beacon Hills. Stiles just hopes it isn’t the alpha pack, because dealing with them once was enough.

Derek, Corey, Boyd and Erica are home, watching their turf just in case the clues which led to Reno turn out to be false. Erica’s due in a month and is antsy as hell, Boyd’s staying with her to help her, and Derek doesn’t feel right leaving her. Corey isn’t great in battles yet—he’s more suited to research and defence—so he’s helping Derek find out which pack is doing this. Stiles has been doing what he can too, but there’s only so much he can find with his smartphone. So far they’ve turned up zilch.

Scott and Peter have tracked Liam’s scent to this warehouse. It used to manufacture car parts, but was shut down after the last recession and hasn’t been bought since. There’s rusting machinery abandoned everywhere and the ground floor is a labyrinth of machines and building structures. It’s quiet and eerie, and Stiles honestly feels right at home.

They reach a door leading out of the section they’re in. Scott shoves it open and there’s a corridor fork in front of them: left to Canteen, right to Finishing.

“Where to now?” Isaac asks.

Scott’s eyes flare red. “I can’t tell.”

Peter lifts his eyes skywards. “You’re _his alpha_.”

“I _can’t tell_. He seems to be in both places.”

“Maybe they connect later on,” Hayden suggests.

Stiles feels it again—a flicker of energy. He had to lift some wards to get everyone in, so there’s a humming constantly at the periphery of the building, but this is different, this is at his back. Given he’s in the middle of the werewolves, he’s not optimistic about what the magic is trying to do. Maybe they're being watched.

“We’ll split up,” Scott says.

“Bad idea.” Everyone glares at him and Stiles glares back. “I mean it. We shouldn’t split up. This is where all horror movies go wrong.”

Isaac sighs. “For the love of—”

Stiles holds up a hand and sends his magic sensing outwards, to scan the vicinity ahead of them. This is a form of scrying and it’s not instinctual, not yet. He gets blocked easily by metal, of which there is a ton here. He can deduce however that the canteen has doors leading to Finishing, and that the Finishing section is very big and has more machines in it. Goody. No magic though.

He reports this back to the group.

“Then it doesn’t matter if we split up,” Peter points out. “We’ll meet at Finishing.”

“But we should stick together for numbers,” Stiles says.

Scott groans. “We don’t have time for this. All those in favour of staying together?”

Stiles holds up his hand. No one else does. He makes a face. “Et tu, Peter?”

Peter shrugs. “Splitting up gets the search done quicker.”

“Wow. _Wow._ I hope you all feel bad about outnumbering me.”

Scott ignores him. “Peter, Isaac, you go to the canteen. Hayden, Stiles, with me to Finishing.”

They duly split up. Stiles keeps close to Scott and Hayden, enough for her to snarl at him. He doesn’t like Peter and Isaac leaving them. He doesn’t like this situation point blank. Too many nooks and crannies in this place.

They emerge out of the corridor into the large open space that used to be Finishing. Darkness hides the gaps between machines and the perimeter of the room. There are broken windows high up, near the ceiling, and streetlight streams through in places—not enough to illuminate everything. There’s a cleared central area which is revealed when they step around a concrete wall. Scott and Hayden stalk forward, looking around warily. Stiles follows behind, trying to scan as best he can.

He feels the people right around the time that Scott and Hayden do, growling and lunging forward into the centre of the room. Stiles follows more slowly, dread creeping up his spine. He can’t see so well in the dim light, but there’s a body on the floor in the middle of the cleared space. Scott and Hayden crouch over the body.

“It’s him,” Scott announces. “Alive.”

The way he says it means there's more. “But?” Stiles asks.

“Full of wolfsbane.” Hayden sounds worried, which isn't a good sign at all.

Stiles steps and then pauses. People emerge from the shadows, there’s a rapidity of movement and chanting, and suddenly he’s wrapped tightly in magic. He struggles, pushing against it to free himself, but he can’t move, not at all.

Before him, someone throws dust at Scott and Hayden that widens into a perfect circle around them and Liam. Mountain ash.

Scott and Hayden are shifted and on their feet, snarling at the people who come in closer. Stiles watches, panicky, as various people in dark combat gear step forward holding guns. There are two people in plainclothes, their focus entirely on him, and more werewolves, grinning and victorious.

One steps forward, eyes red, and strolls around the edge of the mountain ash. “Hey there, McCall.”

“Who the hell are you?” Scott asks.

“You’re not going to last long enough to care.” The alpha walks past him and Hayden and heads for Stiles. “Mr Stilinski. I apologise for the melodrama.”

Stiles is still struggling, but it’s in vain. He thinks the two plainclothes people are the spellcasters holding him—maybe druids, maybe not. He opens his mouth to warn Peter, but finds that’s shut too. Fuck. _Fuck_.

The alpha stops in front of him. “We’ve been trying to pin you down for some time, but you keep evading us. You’re very difficult to predict. So we decided, well, if we’re going to take some offensive actions here, might as well clear the deck in Beacon Hills while we’re at it.”

Stiles stares at him, not following.

The alpha looks behind him. “You got them?”

“Yeah we did.”

Stiles hears grunts and the push-pull of fabric. Six werewolves come into view, three each wolfhandling Peter and Isaac. His two packmates are forced to the edge of the ash circle and tasered to their knees.

The alpha turns around and spreads his hands. “We did it! Beacon Hills is ours!”

The group whoops and howls.

Stiles can’t see his pack clearly behind the alpha, but he hasn’t yet seen Liam move and he doesn’t like the look of the guns. Whoever this is, they’ve brought serious heat. There's at least two dozen people here.

The alpha turns back to him. “Introductions are in order. I’m Garrett Douglas, your new alpha. This is my pack, now your pack. Again, I apologise for the dramatics. We needed you out of Beacon Hills so that we can get in. You see, we’re strong, Mr Stilinski, so incredibly strong, and we just need the nemeton—”

Struggles break out behind him and he spins around. Stiles can see Peter and Isaac fighting, trying to . . . he doesn’t know what they’re trying to do. They’re hopelessly outnumbered here.

Hayden’s crouched over Liam again and Scott’s glaring at Garrett’s back.

“You’re not getting anything,” Scott growls.

Garrett laughs. “Scott. Scott. I _already_ have it. You and . . .” He starts forward. “Ah, it’s the other Hale, not Derek. So, not even your pack is stupid enough to leave Beacon Hills entirely undefended. I suppose that’s good. Who knows, maybe Derek can be coerced over, given your emissary will be joining us.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Scott says. “Stiles will never join you.”

Garrett glances back at him. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Scott. You see, you won’t be around to convince him to stay.” He waves a hand and one person opens fire on the ash circle. Just a few rounds, into Liam, who jerks with a thick whine then goes limp.

Stiles feels it immediately—a pang, a loss. He freezes. His skin tightens, almost unbearably so.

Hayden and Scott go insane, howling and hurling themselves at the ash circle barrier.

Garrett’s grinning. “That’s the first one. Who’s next?”

No.

_No_.

Stiles is cold. He feels separate from himself, even as Garrett points at Isaac and one of the wolves holding him tears his throat out. Peter lunges against his captors and Scott and Hayden beat against the ash barrier. Another pulls out a machete, and Stiles watches numbly as it comes down on Isaac. Making sure.

There’s the pang of a second loss—deeper, harder, colder.

No more of this.

No more.

He’s done.

One thing at a time.

His bindings. Stiles looks at the spellcasters, who are watching Isaac’s beheading with calm. They’re keeping him held. _Him_. They have no idea what he can do. Because—he realises with blinding insight—they’re just keeping _him_ held, aren’t they? Physical him. Not his magic.

He pulls his magic into sharp points and sends them straight into the spellcasters’ chests. It's hard without moving, but he does it. Their eyes roll back and they fall. The spells holding him evaporate and Stiles can move. He lets that itchy, crawling feeling on his skin loose and advances on Garrett, who seems to be taking a very long time to react. Perhaps because he doesn’t realise what a _massive fucking colossal mistake _he just made.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

Seriously, who?

This asshole, coming out of nowhere, deciding he can fuck with _his _pack, _his _home, his_ life_, like he has _any right_ to it. He thinks he has any say in this any more? Stiles has been through hell and back for his pack, so many times over, and this piece of shit thinks he can step in and just _take them_? And that Stiles will just _watch_?

He grabs Garrett’s neck just as Garrett turns to gape at him. Stiles uses his magic to lift him off the ground. There’s noise and hubbub around him—he hardly cares. All he wants is for Garrett to feel loss too.

Garrett’s eyes are wide and he’s babbling something, anything—Stiles isn’t listening. He points upwards and a section of roof falls down on half of Garrett’s pack. Huge blocks of concrete, several floors of it, crushing about a dozen people at once. Garrett shudders and Stiles grins. More roofing falls. Garrett jerks and begs. He starts pulling at Garrett’s energy—but slowly this time. So slowly. He watches the life drain out of his eyes, and when Garrett is just a withered husk in his hand, he drops the body and turns to take care of the rest of Garrett's pack—

“—iles!”

Stiles is staring at about four people, gathered together by an unseen force. His unseen force. Perfect. He raises his hands, ready to rain down more pain.

Someone grabs his hands. “Stiles!”

His vision’s filled with Peter. His hands are like a warm balm, soothing and centring. Stiles stares at him, amazed at him like always. But there’s blood and healing bruises on his face. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.” Peter pulls his hands to his chest. “Come back to me, sweetheart.”

Stiles frowns. He didn’t go anywhere.

But he feels it now—his magic, tuning back in and returning to him. He’d set it loose.

Oh.

He lost control.

His whole body aches and his mouth is dry. He blinks and tries to make sense of what just happened.

He looks around. There’s a withered husk of body a few steps away. Scott and Hayden stare at him, shocked, outside of the ash circle. It’s been broken by a slab of concrete. Above him, there’s a massive new skylight in the roof, and a missing wall to his right. The floor is cracked in places. There are bodies everywhere—Liam’s is in a puddle of black bile, and Isaac’s is headless. He can’t see the head.

The deep loss thrums deep in him. He grips Peter’s hands. “It hurts.”

“I know.” Peter reels him in tight. “I _know_.”

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes in Peter’s familiar scent.

There’s the crunch of someone stepping. Hayden growls at the remaining pack members. “Stay there if you know what’s good for you.”

Peter strokes his back and Stiles shudders at the warmth and closeness. He hears Scott and Hayden talking in low tones, then addressing the survivors.

He pushes his forehead into Peter’s shoulder. “I killed them.”

“And we’re immensely grateful. That was a clusterfuck situation.” Peter’s fingers comb through his hair. It feels good. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

Stiles opens his eyes and tilts his head up. “I . . .” His magic hardly feels used. That would be Garrett’s life force, replenishing him. Stiles groans at the thought. He’s killed. Again. He never wanted to, but he has.

Peter manages to smile at him, pained and slightly feral. “Yes?”

“I never wanted to do that again,” Stiles whispers. “But I did. Peter, I’m a monster.”

Peter frowns now. “You’re not, love.”

“That was dark magic.”

“I know.” There’s a pause. “What do you mean, _again_?”

Stiles looks aside. “I’ve done that before. To someone else.”

“I’m sure they deserved it.”

Stiles exhales sharply. “It’s not a joke, Peter.”

Peter’s hands grip his face tightly and forces their gazes to meet. “Stiles. They were going to butcher all of us, then use you to gain control of Beacon Hills and the nemeton. I don’t know why, not yet, but _none_ of this was a joke. You saved us.”

Stiles can’t respond, not when the obvious answer is: not everyone. He didn’t save everyone. He realised too late.

“Fuck them,” Hayden is saying. “Let’s get out of here.”

Peter pulls him in tight again. “I agree. I hear sirens coming closer.”

Scott curses. “We can’t just leave these people.”

“Got anymore tricks up your sleeve, sweetheart?” Peter asks.

Stiles nods.

“Then let’s take care of these assholes while Scott and Hayden get our packmates out of here.”

Scott glares at them. “What does that mean? Are you going to kill them? No! You can’t.” He gestures at the remaining werewolves. “We’d be no better than them if we did.” He looks wrecked. Loss of his first beta, loss of his friend, death on this kind of scale—Stiles gets it.

And Scott gets him too. He’s wearing that pleading expression, begging Stiles not to do it.

“What do you want to do with them instead?” Stiles asks.

“We take them with us. Figure it out later.”

Hayden snaps out, “There’s not enough space in the van.”

“Police are getting closer,” Peter says. “Decide.”

“We’ll do whatever you want,” one of the werewolves calls.

“Shut up,” Hayden and Stiles yell back.

Scott glances at the group. There’s four of them, all in human form. He says, “Let them go.”

Peter scoffs. “Loose ends, Scott.”

“I said, _we’re letting them go._” Scott shifts slightly, he’s so vehement about it.

Stiles thinks it’s a bad idea. He still steps away from Peter and touches his shoulder. “Peter. We need to leave. We can discuss next steps later.” Peter nods.

Stiles faces the group and lifts the trapping spell. They cower, then slowly rise to their feet and back away. He quickly forms tracking runes and flies them over, ensuring they attach to their necks.

Then it’s a matter of collecting Liam and Isaac, and running.

*

They hole up in a motel on the highway out of Reno, desperately needing sleep. In the early morning, when Scott and Hayden are sound asleep, Stiles and Peter slip out to take care of the loose ends. It doesn’t take long. They’re back at the motel an hour before Scott and Hayden wake up. The morning news is full of the factory collapse and the bodies found there.

*

The ride back is quiet. Stiles can’t pick up chemosignals the way the wolves do, but he’s pretty sure there’s an undercurrent of sorrow and anger. He and Peter are in the backseat, fighting sleep. Peter has one arm around Stiles’ shoulders. He’s hardly let him go since they got rid of the last four weres.

An hour into the roadtrip, Scott breaks the silence. “Stiles. I’ve seen you angry before, but not like that. You were ranting at the alpha while everything cracked around us.”

Stiles doesn’t remember ranting, though it’s entirely possible he did.

Scott glances back at him. “How did you _do_ that?”

“I think Stiles hasn’t been sharing just how powerful he is,” Peter says.

“No shit,” Hayden says. “The barrier around town was badass enough. If you can bring a building down on twenty werewolves, we’re sending you in on your own next time.”

“No we’re not,” Scott says. “Seriously, Stiles, what was that? Were you in control?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I was angry. First Liam, then Isaac—I lost control.”

Scott seems mollified by this. “You weren’t responding to us.”

“You talked to me?”

“More like screamed at you to stop,” Hayden says. “Do you know how much concrete we dodged before that ash circle broke?”

Stiles winces. “I didn’t hear you at all. Except Peter.”

Peter’s thumb rubs against his arm.

There’s a small moment of quiet. Stiles notices how Scott’s jaw works, how he looks out the window and takes some breaths. Stiles doesn’t have to look at Peter to know he’s smirking. He digs his elbow into his side.

Eventually Scott says, “How did we miss a pack of that size wanting control of Beacon Hills?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. The last two weres gave up some information—rumours about the Beacon Hills nemeton, and about Stiles’ abilities. Garrett Douglas was very interested, as he's spent years gathering his perfect pack and looking for a good territory to claim. Given he’s behind several large-scale pack slaughters, and the nature of his recruiting methods, he kept his activities on the down-low, precisely to avoid being caught and stopped by other packs.

“He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d broadcast intentions like that,” Peter says casually.

Scott grimaces. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“What happens now?” Hayden asks.

Peter settles himself comfortably. “Now, people will hear about what happened with the Douglas pack, and will be less likely to fuck with us.”

Stiles hopes so. He tries not to think about the bodies in the back of the van. They’ve told the pack in Beacon Hills, though they already knew about the deaths. They felt the bonds break from miles away. Derek doesn’t sound okay, and Boyd is worried about the loss of a packmate on Erica. Corey is heartbroken. Stiles doesn’t trust himself the way he used to. The cost of this is high enough.

At least Peter’s handling certain revelations well. It shouldn’t be a surprise—after all, Peter’s done the same, if not worse, in his time. But he’s touching Stiles a _lot_, comforting him and helping him. Stiles wonders if he’s impressed him. He’s not sure if he’s impressed at what happened.

But he’s glad, so, so glad Peter was there to calm him down before he fully destroyed the factory.

Stiles didn’t know this was coming. He can’t remember if Peter mentioned it or not. At this precise moment in time, he’s not sure how much he cares. He needs better control. That’s clear. There will be other times when Stiles is investigating situations alone or without Peter. He can’t always rely on Peter to calm him down. His future self needs some level of internal control that’s reliable.

There’s not much more conversation on the way back to Beacon Hills. The drive is long and hot, with swooping scrub hills and a cloudless blue sky. Stiles falls asleep on Peter, secured under his arm.


	44. Chapter 44

It’s early evening in the vet clinic. Stiles leans against the doorframe of Deaton’s office, while Deaton thumbs through his notes. “You didn’t mention Isaac or Liam being dead.”

Stiles shakes his head. He’d checked his scribblings too. “I wasn’t told about it. I would’ve remembered that detail.”

Deaton considers him. “Yes, I agree. And Peter didn’t say anything?”

“No. He didn’t hint at it at all.” Future Peter decided to tease him about their relationship instead, the dick. Stiles is still wondering about certain things he’d mentioned. “You gave a summary of where the pack was when I first got here, I remember that much. Just . . .” His notes are vague, and by now his memory is too. “Not the details. Fuck.”

Deaton nods and makes a note. “Don’t worry, Stiles. When I heard about what happened in Reno, I decided not to say anything in the future to you. I wouldn’t wish that kind of knowledge on your younger self, to carry that as well as everything else that happened to you.”

Stiles glares at him. “But I could _prevent_ it. Could have.”

Deaton straightens in his chair. “Is that true? What could you have done differently in that situation? Or beforehand? If you’d hired someone to take Douglas out of the picture, your proof and justification would’ve had to be airtight. Perhaps he would’ve taken you directly had you tried. Would you have warned Liam or Isaac? What if it hadn’t been Liam taken because you warned him? What if it had been Erica? Or Scott? Or Peter?”

Stiles waves him off. “I get it, doc. Fuck, I get it.” He lets his head hit the doorframe. “I hate this.”

“It’s not your fault, Stiles.” Deaton slides his notes into a binder marked _Neutering Schedules_ and places it on top of multiple others beside his computer. “Just because you went forward in time doesn’t mean you have a responsibility for things that happen now. You didn’t know. You _couldn’t_ know. This horrible event is Douglas’ fault, not yours.”

A lump grows in Stiles’ throat. “Thanks.”

Deaton smiles knowingly. “I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”

He shrugs. Like, on the one hand, he didn’t know. He’d had no idea. So no, preventing it doesn’t rest on his shoulders.

Not this time. Maybe he could prevent it. Maybe he could persuade Deaton to tell his younger self anyway. Deaton or Peter. Peter might be the better option. He’s been more tactile than usual lately, cheerful and open. Something about calming Stiles down in the middle of a magical tantrum makes Peter happy.

Whatever. The guilt lingers anyway, no matter what Stiles does or what justifications people make.

*

On their fifth anniversary, Stiles meets Peter after work at Gino’s, as usual, and chooses three tunes on the jukebox before sitting down.

There’s a silence—the kind where they’re considering how to start the evening.

The loss of Isaac and Liam earlier that year has altered pack life in Beacon Hills. There’s an emptiness that wasn’t there before. Others have left, other deaths have happened, but something about this feels different. Permanent. Everyone mentions it at least once during pack nights.

Derek has left, just for the short-term, presumably to find himself and recover or something. Stiles isn’t sure he’ll come back permanently. Deaton is sombre, Scott has retreated within himself_._ No one outside of Beacon Hills has come investigating, though Peter confirms other packs know that Beacon Hills was involved in how the Douglas pack met its end.

Life has moved on. Of course it has. At the start of summer, Erica gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl who’s the light of everyone’s life. Even Peter’s been seen cooing at her.

No new trouble has been seen in or around Beacon Hills. Peter’s been promoted at work. Scott is talking about biting a few extra people, but it’s not the same, not at all.

There’s a fundamental shift in what they do, who they are. Too many people have left.

So no, Stiles isn’t in the mood for celebrating, though he always looks forward to pizza and 60s mega hits with Peter.

As usual, Peter takes things in stride. He did admit to Stiles that he’d had a soft spot for Isaac, and that losing that pack bond reminded him of the fire. Stiles can properly empathise now, having felt it himself. And he doesn’t feel it as much as the wolves appear to; he can’t imagine the pain of losing multiple family _and_ pack in one fell swoop. No wonder Derek needed to leave. He suspects—no, he _knows_ the reason Peter hasn’t is because of him.

And then there’s him. The nice big Stiles-shaped elephant in the room. Apparently his ability to smash concrete at will—or under emotional duress—is considered less than great. Stiles has had the odd comment from Scott about being so willing to take bloody revenge, but while Stiles still isn’t okay with how _easy_ it was, how simple in the moment—he always thinks of Robert Anderson, and now he’ll think of Garrett Douglas too—Stiles is more certain that it was the best way things could’ve gone. Well. Without preventing it via time travel shenanigans. At least the majority of them are still here. Derek was more understanding, but didn’t approve of Stiles forgetting to protect his packmates. He’d let the concrete fall and the magic fly, without considering his pack were in the middle of everything.

Stiles is so tired of thinking about it.

Nonetheless, he’s been working on control. 

Stiles taps his fingers against the cheap paper cloth on the tabletop. The smell of oil, cheese, and garlic is heady, and suddenly oppressive. He’s heard this Bee Gees song how many times? He’s tried everything he wants on the menu. He knows what’s good and what’s great. He knows he’s going to get. He always does.

Five years now. Five times they’ve been here together. He loves Gino’s, but everything about it is grating on his nerves tonight. “I think we need to get out of here.”

Peter raises one eyebrow. “Of Gino’s?”

“No. Well, maybe. I mean Beacon Hills.” Stiles spreads his hands, suddenly energised. “Let’s _go_ somewhere. I’ve never been outside of the state. Or, hell, outside of the States. Well, except for that one time in Mexico, but that wasn’t strictly legal.”

A slow, delighted grin appears on Peter’s face. “All bets are off, huh? Even you can get sick of Beacon Hills. I think I need to take a picture.”

Stiles shoots him a pointed look. “You’d rather yuk it up than plan a trip?”

“Being right is one of life’s keenest joys, sweetheart.” Peter leans forward. “Of course I’m on board. We’ve earned a vacation dozens of times over. Let’s go outside of North America, somewhere that won’t remind us of everything.”

“Exactly. _Exactly_.” Stiles grins. “Holy shit. Brazil?”

“Why not? Though, there’s a hefty amount of civil unrest there.” Peter rests his cheek in one fist. “I could see you dodging spiders in Australia.”

“That’s really far for a week or two.”

They bat ideas back and forth. Stiles can’t stop smiling.

“What do you think of Italy?”

Stiles gestures widely. “That’s my point. I _don’t_ think of Italy. Hell to the _yeah_ we should go.”

Peter grins. “Book time off and we’ll do it.”

They stare at each other. Stiles feels a huge smile spread across his face. “We’re actually doing this? Just like that?”

“Yes. We’re decisive people. We’re going to Italy.”  
“Holy crap. Omigod. We’re going to Italy. To _Europe_.” He slaps the table. “Let’s do Rome. And Pisa. And Pompeii.” The possibilities spill in front of him. And one of the best parts is that he has no idea this trip happened. Would happen. Will happen. Argh.

*

They go in early December. The first week is a whirlwind through Pisa, Florence, and Rome. Now the jet lag’s worn off and Stiles finally feels like reality has settled back, that this is his life that he’s living. The charms of Italy are so far removed from what he knows in California that he still has trouble believing it’s not fake somehow. The architecture is beautiful—and so _old_—and the food is incredible and the history, scenery, _country_, is just stunning.

Now they’re walking along the waterfront in a village near Naples. The sun is setting over the Mediterranean, dim and burnt orange, and the sky is awash with fiery violet. They’re heading for a restaurant at the other end of the village and are in no rush. The air is balmy and there’s an atmosphere of fun and relaxation as they walk past other tourists and families taking in the nightlife and Christmas decorations. With the palm trees, an ascending full moon, and the background chatter of Italian and the soft waves of the sea, he feels like he’s in one of those intellectual European drama movies.

“This is so fucking beautiful,” Stiles says for the millionth time.

“It truly is,” Peter agrees, also for the millionth time.

Travel has brought out a more relaxed side to Peter. Stiles likes seeing him sort through tacky souvenirs and make filthy jokes about ancient statues. He’s gentler here, less likely to posture. He holds hands more, cuddles for longer in the mornings, and insists on sharing every meal he orders.

Stiles thinks he’s been similarly affected—he’s calmer about what they do and when they do it. It’s so strange to be somewhere so different, so alien to what he knows, but in a way, that relaxes him in a way he’s never felt before. Here he’s not Stiles the way everyone else thinks of him, he’s instead a visitor, a person adrift in a place he doesn’t understand and which doesn’t understand him. He can do things differently and it doesn’t matter. It’s freeing.

Best of all, there’s been nothing supernatural here. Peter’s sniffed out a few werewolves and other creatures, but they don’t get involved. It’s nice.

“Sometimes I wonder what life would be like here,” Peter says.

“Uh, freaking amazing.” Stiles pats his stomach. “We’d be fat within a month though.”

“You say that, but the Mediterranean diet is notoriously healthy.”

“Yeah, we ate how much strufoli today?”

Peter takes his hand. “It’s a special occasion. We’re allowed.”

“We’re on holiday in _Europe_. The whole thing is the special occasion.”

Peter seems almost chipper. “I think we could make it more special.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Is this a full moon thing? Are you giddy because it’s a full moon but you’re away from your pack? Oh my god, am I going to have to chain you to the hotel radiator? Because that thing looks older than America and I don’t think it’ll hold—”

“Stiles.” Peter glances around. They’re past the bulk of waterfront cafés and crowds now. He turns to him, swinging their hands between them. “We’ve been together for how long now?”

Stiles does a calculation. It’s just before Christmas so . . . “Five years and like a month? Or two?”

All of Peter’s attention is on him. “Is it long enough to have that discussion about marriage?”

Everything in Stiles freezes—in a good way. He swallows, then says, “Uh. Yeah? Yeah. Now’s good.”

“Good.” Peter squeezes his hand, teasing him. “It’s a simple question, Stiles, don’t overthink it. Do you want to marry me?”

Stiles nods. “I so do. Like, I really, really want to. And you,” he rushes before Peter can continue, “you too, right?”

“Well, I’m not asking to be nice.” Peter flashes a wolfy grin at him. “Yes. We’re good together.” His grin softens. “Better than I imagined, if I’m honest.”

“Wow.” Stiles pokes him. “Radical honesty, so romantic.”

“I try. Give me your other hand.”

Stiles holds it out, and Peter plunks a ring in it without breaking stride. Stiles stops—has to, because what? A ring? He gapes at it. It’s silvery, thick, and very, _very_ familiar.

Not just a ring. _The_ ring.

“You didn’t,” he manages.

“Do you like it?”

Stiles curls his hand into a fist over it and looks at Peter. Tears threaten but he blinks them back. “Yes. You smooth asshole, yes. You’re actually proposing? I thought this was just a discussion!”

Peter shrugs, but he looks pleased. “When are we going to be here again?”

“You _dick_. You sly, ridiculous—Oh my god, I love you. Do you have one too?”

Peter reaches into his pocket and pulls out the matching ring. “I saw them and immediately thought of us. They’re platinum. Rare, durable, and very good-looking.”

Now he’s actually trying not to cry. Ah, fuck it. This one of the best moments of his life after a shitty fucking summer, he can cry.

They put the rings on, then he kisses Peter a _lot_, and tries to calm down for dinner.

He has agnolotti and Peter has veal, and they chase it down with velvety red wine. He can’t stop grinning. It’s actually a problem. Even Peter cracks more smiles than normal. Everything seems dialled up—the atmosphere of the restaurant, the tastes of the food, the way the sunset melts into a moonlit night, and the international chatter of Italians and other tourists around them.

They stroll back to their hotel. Power stroll. With breaks to make out at picturesque points in front of the Mediterranean and take pictures for later. Stiles is fucking documenting this. He’s getting married. Peter wants to marry him. And damn right he’s going on insta as the guy who was proposed to—_proposed to_—in _Italy_ on a spur-of-the-moment vacation by his hot-as-hell boyfriend.

Peter’s hands haven’t left Stiles since the restaurant. By the time their ancient hotel looms, Stiles is, without a doubt, ready to push him down and wreck him. They somehow get to their room without waking up half the place, and Peter kisses him fiercely as soon as the door closes behind them. Stiles walks them over to the bed and breaks the kiss to pull off his shirt. Peter grabs his hands, stilling them at his chest level, and kisses him again. Intensely, yes, but not quickly. His shirt is pulled out of his hands and Peter pulls him in a little closer. Stiles pulls back a little so he can see him.

Their room is dark, with a narrow strip of moonlight coming through an uncovered part of their window. Peter’s outlined in silver, his eyes only gleaming a little and his breath fast. His fingers run over Stiles’, over the ring. Stiles looks down and swallows a little. The rings glint in the dim light, and he’s still so ready to spread Peter out on the bed and explore the way he likes—but the urgency recedes a little. Peter seems to need a moment, and looking at those rings and being so in tune with his lover, Stiles decides he doesn’t need to rush this. In fact, he wishes he could freeze time and make this stretch out indefinitely.

Peter raises Stiles’ hand to his mouth and kisses his fingers. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Stiles watches him. “I hate to spoil the moment, but I’ve been a sure thing since, like, day one, dude.” He extends his hand to brush Peter’s lips.

Werewolf blue turns Peter’s eyes brighter, casting a small glow in the small space between them. “I don’t think that’s true. And I’m not just talking about marriage and love.”

The funny thing is, Stiles knows him now. He knows what Peter’s talking about. It’s pack. It’s belief. Respect and understanding. Family. Trust.

“I’m your anchor.” Edges of fangs appear and Peter closes his eyes. “You don’t know what that means to me. I don’t know where I’d be without you, but words can’t express how glad I am to be here, with you, now. To have this with you.”

Stiles’ heart flips over. He puts his hand down, under Peter’s collar, pressing the ring into the skin just above his heart. Peter’s hand still rests loosely around his. Stiles taps the place, wishing he could mark it permanently. Peter is fine with ink, but not with the fire that would make it show on his skin. Stiles can feel Peter’s heartbeat. “I didn’t know we’d be like this,” he confesses. “But me too. Me too.”

He leans in and kisses the underside of Peter’s jaw. Peter sighs. “I’m struck by a need to be romantic. Or nauseatingly sentimental. Prepare yourself.”

Stiles smiles into his neck. “Oh _no_. Do your worst.”

Peter strokes up his back to the nape of his neck. “You bring out parts of me I didn’t realise were there. Or maybe, parts of me I’d forgotten I had. You didn’t know me before the fire and what I was like, how it changed me. I’m not a kind or _nice_ person, but you remind me of everything good, of why I do what I do for the pack and for you. You make me imagine what life can be like, how good it can be.” He runs one hand around Stiles’ hip, hot through the fabric, and lets their joined hands go so he can lift Stiles’ face. “This feels inevitable, but I didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect you.” His eyes flare. “A younger human with a smartass mouth who burned me alive and drives me crazy. Who thinks I’m somehow worth enough to be an anchor. You trust me so implicitly your magic responds to me. I didn’t think I would ever be so important to someone. You make me happy, Stiles. So happy. Remember that.”

Stiles’ heart is impossibly full. “You weren’t kidding. That’s hands-down the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” When Peter huffs a little and looks aside, Stiles brings him back so that they’re gazing into each other’s eyes. They’re doing this, they’re doing it right. Full throttle. Ride or die. “You make me happy too. You have my back and ground me. You push me and make me reconsider everything. You’re intelligent and confident and so fucking brave. And hot.” Peter smirks—like Stiles expected anything else. Peter doesn’t understand humility. God he loves him.

“I can’t imagine my life without you in it.” He trails his hands down Peter’s chest and bunches the hem of his shirt in his fingers. He can’t and he decided that he’s not going to have a life without Peter in it. He’s doing his damnedest to ensure they both get through the future. “I want you to remember, no matter what, I’m yours and I’ll always come back to you.” They look at each other, the tension almost unbearable and sweet.

Peter’s smirk eases slightly. “We should make notes for the wedding vows. That was beautiful.”

“Yeah, it was.” Stiles tugs the shirt up, exposing what seems like miles of skin and muscle. “Time for engaged sex already.” Peter chuckles, showing off crystal-sharp ab definition, which, jesus. Stiles still isn’t over it, even though he gets this almost every night. No matter how many times Stiles sees him, experiences this, it’s somehow never enough. He drags one hand down Peter’s chest, over those incredible abs, down to the beginning of his happy trail and thumbs the hair there.

Peter’s hands start undoing Stiles’ pants. Stiles pulls off his own shirt, prompting a groan from Peter. “Honestly, sweetheart, you’re the gorgeous one.” Fingers trail lightly over the moles on Stiles’ chest, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Look at you.”

He’s heard it before, but he still blushes.

Peter quickly works his pants open and kneels down, taking Stiles’ cock in hand. He looks up at him and winks before teasing the tip with his tongue. Stiles threads his fingers through Peter’s hair, then pulls. “Come on.”

“Patience, dear.” Peter doesn’t make him wait long, swallowing him down so that Stiles is enveloped in wet heat. He groans, resisting the urge to thrust forward. Peter’s so good at this, ridiculously good at it. Peter pulls off slowly, teases him more with licks down the shaft, then settles into a slow sucking rhythm. Stiles watches him, almost hypnotised by the feel of his mouth and tongue and by the sight of Peter’s lips around his dick. His orgasms builds deliciously, then ramps up, and he babbles nonsense the closer he gets to release. Peter gently touches and presses his balls, then sends a wet finger along his taint and to his rim, and Stiles pants, begs—then comes down his throat with a yell. He folds over, gripping Peter’s shoulders to help him stay upright, gasping in air.

When his vision clears, Peter working one finger into him and grinning. “Ready for more, sweetheart?”

Stiles strokes the back of his neck. “Always.”

*

The rest of the trip is honestly a blur. But there’s sex. A _lot_ of sex. With his werewolf _fiancé_.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anyone else been in an emotional coma for *weeks* thanks to folklore? It's cool, Taylor, just rip my soul out through my tear ducts, I wasn't using it anyway.

When they return to the States, it’s like being snapped back into a harsh, chemical-edged version of life. Everything’s bigger and louder, with contrast dialled up to ten thousand. Stiles realises on the drive from the airport that in just a few weeks, it’ll be six years since the Incident, and for the first time, he’ll be closer to the beginning of it than to the end of it.

Well. Sort of.

He needs to up the ante. He and Lydia have refined the herb-based spell to certain promising components, but still haven’t successfully replicated the spell he remembers being cast. There’s very little dedicated work on time travel from mages, which seems odd given the plethora of work on other types of spells. Scrying is helping—he finds focusing on material concrete things is much easier than a concept or a generic description of a thing. He wants to work that into the spell they’re doing.

When he goes into his flat, he finds the Beacon Hills High School mug sitting on his kitchen counter. He takes a picture of it and sends it to Lydia, then diligently notes down the date and time. It’s been a year since they cast the spell on it. It’s a long time to wait for a good result, but he’s used to that.

*

Lydia: _so you managed to do it_

Lydia: _what was the spell again?_

Stiles: _uh the one weve been working on_

Stiles: _we need to refine it_

Lydia: _yeah but what were the ingredients for this one?_

Stiles: _experiment 42_

Stiles: _sunflower seeds cacao nibs clarified butter ginger oats agave nectar_

Lydia: _great thks _

Lydia: _xxx_

Stiles frowns at his phone and turns around to Deaton. “Can you call Lydia real quick?”

Deaton looks up. “Why?”

“I think someone’s using her phone to message me.”

Deaton pulls his phone out with a dubious expression and calls her. “Hi, it’s me. I wanted to check in. Yeah. Yeah. No, nothing strange lately. Sure. Yes, I will. I’d recommend sage, actually, its properties seem best for that particular situation. Okay. All right. Bye.” He puts the phone down. “It sounded like her on the other end.”

Stiles shows him the messages. The veterinarian’s expression darkens. “Yes, I see what you mean. That spell looks more like a recipe for granola.”

“That’s because it is. I don’t like this.”

Deaton taps the screen. “What experiment are you referring to? Why is there a picture of a mug?”

“Oh, we magicked that mug into the future.” Stiles still can’t believe it.

“You sent that a day ago and she’s only responding now. Very strange for her. And if you managed to do a complicated spell like that, you’ve probably attracted attention.” Deaton looks pensive. “We know you already have, in multiple ways. You’ve noticed by now that time travel is generally avoided within mage and druid circles. If someone’s noticed what you’re doing, you two could be in trouble.”

Stiles wants to sigh heavily, because of _course_ Deaton’s only sharing this now. “You didn’t say that when I first told you what happened!”

“I care about balance, Stiles, not about whether you’re running through time. Your situation is clear to me. However, other types of spellcasters and magic-users will have stronger opinions. There’s a reason why time travel texts are hoarded or destroyed.” Deaton does look guilty. “I confess, I didn’t think you’d actually try to deliberately create a time travel spell this quickly.”

“Quickly? It’s been almost six years!”

Deaton nods. “It’s a drop compared to other topics of research.”

Like, yeah, it’s true that Stiles and Lydia have had a tough time researching dedicated time travel spells. They’ve only found a few books with vague references, one or two promising spells in collections, and half of a pamphlet written by an anonymous witch from sixteenth-century Spain. They _have_ found plenty of thinkpieces and opinions from mages on the topic of time travel, most of them deciding that attempting it is too dangerous. And Stiles _gets_ that. This entire fucking thing has been a huge fucking headache. But he knows for a fact that Lydia casts a time travel spell in the future and he needs to make sure that happens. His time is half up—he’s not going to stop now.

He frowns at his phone. “So someone’s trying to get the spell or expose us. Maybe both.”

“When is she coming here?”

“Tomorrow.” Christmas is only a few days away, and she’ll be flying in like she normally does. Maybe he’ll meet her at the airport. “I’ll pretend everything’s normal until then.”

Deaton nods. “Sensible.”

*

Stiles knocks on the Martins’ front door. It opens and his arms are filled with a grinning Lydia. “Stiles! Merry Christmas!”

He hugs her, then steps back. She looks the same, but slightly thinner and with dark circles under her eyes. “We have cookies inside, come on.” She takes his head and pulls him inside, then marches him to the kitchen. Once there, she makes the rune for privacy and the outside world is abruptly deadened.

“I saw the messages too,” she says quietly. “I’m being tracked.”

Stiles exhales sharply. He _knew_ it. “Do you know who?”

“I think so.” She makes a face. “I _may_ have hooked up with a druid at CasterCon this year. And by druid, I mean the darker kind.”

He tries to parse that. “You mean—Lydia, a _darach_? Really?”

She winces. “He totally didn’t come off as evil, I promise. At the time he was just hot and a little mean, and I like that in a one-night stand. I found out _later_ that he’s been known to steal spells and magic from people and that he’s maybe a little, ah, psychotic.”

“So he, what, tapped your phone?”

She looks miserable. “Yeah. I think he’s copied my app account details and he can log into them. I’ve noticed notes on my computer with strange edits and stuff. I changed the passwords, but that hasn’t helped. He either has a keylogger or can watch me change them. So I went hardcore and bought a new phone, new laptop, new everything, transferred what I could, and I’ve been using blocking runes basically 24/7.”

Stiles looks at his phone. “That’s why he messaged me? Because he can’t get your notes anymore. Shit, has he been watching _me_?” If so, he hopes he enjoyed the show. He and Peter are having as much engaged sex as they can handle.

“Possibly. I doubt he’s got access to your devices though.” She smiles, more genuinely now. “Nice touch with the recipe.”

“He’s an idiot if he actually believed me. And if he managed to hack you, then he’s not an idiot.”

They gaze at each other.

She sighs deeply. “Okay, first things first, I’m sending you my new number. Save it as something else so that if he’s watching you, he won’t realise I’m the one you’re contacting.” She takes out her phone and they share numbers. He saves her under _Holly_.

She sucks in a breath and grabs his wrist. “What is _that_?”

Stiles realises it’s the hand with the ring. “Uh. The ring? You know? Because we’re engaged?” He told everyone about their impending marriage as soon as they returned from Italy. Lydia sent him an eye-rolling emoji with her congratulations.

She seems unimpressed. “Yeah, but this isn’t an engagement ring. There aren’t even diamonds in it.”

Stiles clutches his hand back to his chest. “Hey! No judging the ring. This thing is going to save my butt in six years’ time. And we decided we liked these so much that they’re the wedding bands too. Engagement rings are a marketing scam, you _know_ this, Lydia.”

“Yes, but they’re an _effective_ scam, and diamonds are forever. They retain value extremely well. More than husbands tend to.” She glances him up and down. “Still, knowing you, something plain without a setting is probably best.”

He can’t even argue with that. He’d have knocked out any settings within days.

“And _he_ proposed, which is crazy to me.” Lydia seems reluctantly impressed. “He has a heart. I can’t believe it.”

“I told you he did.” He indicates himself. “And you can’t blame him. Who could resist this?”

She makes a face. “Don’t ask me that.”

_Wow_. 

“Anyway, can we focus?”

Aha, right. “You have a stalker trying to steal our time travel spells and you’ve changed numbers. He knows who I am. Deaton told me yesterday that there are—”

Someone rings the doorbell. Lydia frowns. “I’m not expecting anyone.” She goes to the door, Stiles trailing behind her with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The privacy bubble set up by the rune remains in the kitchen, and immediately Stiles gets an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades that he 100% hopes is psychosomatic.

At the door are two strangers, a tall woman and a shorter man. Both of them wear loose, natural fibre clothing and have a calm distinct presence to them that Stiles now associates with druids. The shorter of the two step forward. “Lydia Martin and Stiles Stilinski?”

“Who’s asking?” Lydia asks.

“I’m Drake Hodges and this is Julia Baccari.” He glances between them. “We represent AODE, the American Organisation of Druids and Emissaries.”

Stiles doesn’t like this. “Never heard of you.”

“Alan Deaton isn’t one of our members,” Julia says. There’s an initial sweetness about her that Stiles doesn’t trust for a moment. “Ideological differences.”

“We understand you two have been targeted by one of our members.” Drake nods at Lydia. “You in particular, Ms Martin.”

Lydia crosses her arms. “You know about him?”

“Yes,” Julia says. “Druids in our community flagged certain issues with him to us a few months ago. We take dark magic and dark druidism very seriously.” She pauses, her mouth going flat. “We also take time travel magic very seriously.”

Stiles opens his mouth but Lydia beats him to it. “So, you’re not here to apologise to me for one of your members stalking and harassing me? Is that right?”

“We’re here to do that too,” Drake says quickly. “We’re very sorry about him and he will be disciplined.”

“That’s a little, uh, lacking,” Lydia says.

“I’d say a lot lacking,” Stiles adds.

“He’ll be disciplined _severely_.”

“However, in investigating him, we were extremely concerned by your activities,” Julia continues. “When we looked further, we found instances where other magic users flagged unusual magical activity in the Beacon Hills area. It was initially attributed to the local nemeton, but now we suspect otherwise. Ms Martin, Mr Stilinski, you must be aware time travel is actively prohibited in all areas of magic use. We ask you to cease your experiments with time travel.”

Stiles can’t believe their gall. “Uh, who do you think you—”

“Prohibited by whom?” Lydia asks coolly.

“All major international organisations for magic-users contain clear guidelines on the misuse of magic, and time travel is one of those uses which are severely restricted when not outright banned.” Julia smiles sympathetically. “We recognise its draw, but the potential fallout from misuse can be catastrophic.”

“I question your authority to approach us like this.” Lydia’s got a certain lawyer tone in her voice that makes Stiles slightly weak at the knees. Peter has it too. Fuck, he can’t think like this right now. “Neither of us are druids or members of any organisation of magic-users.”

“You may not be official members, but we are all practitioners.” Julia still has that sympathetic smile on her face. “We are a community, and we share the world and linear time with billions of people. Time travel negatively affects all of us. Limiting influence and action on this particular topic simply on a basis of organisational membership is both hypocritical and unethical.”

Okay, Stiles is impressed at how well she’s matching Lydia, but he’s pretty sure he can physically feel the heat of Lydia’s anger.

Lydia turns on that fake smile she perfected in middle school. “And yet, that’s not much of a legal basis to come to my private property and make allegations about our behaviour.”

“Allegations?” Drake is clearly surprised. “We have proof. Pictures and text conversations going back years.”

“Illegally obtained.” Lydia shakes her head. “He hacked me, and now you’re doing it too. Private conversations need a warrant to be obtained.”

“We’re not bound by human laws,” Julia says.

“Bring this up in a court of law here,” Drake adds. “We dare you.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, no. Magic-users have courts too. This doesn’t come into human law.”

“Then stop quoting human legalese at us.” Drake grins nastily at Lydia. “Nice try.”

“You have no authority to impose restrictions on us,” Lydia says.

“We disagree,” Julia says. “And just for the record? No one’s going to be on your side.”

“If it’s not us, it will be others,” Drake adds. “We share potential time travel activity. If we don’t convince you, others certainly will. And they may not be as considerate as we are.”

Is that a threat? It sounds an awful lot like a threat.

Stiles tries to size them up. They’re both older and _feel_ powerful, but he doubt he could pull off a scan without tripping their own magic. The atmosphere is tense, each pair waiting for the other to do something, to initiate something. Stiles likes to think he’s honed a sense of when to throw the first punch; this isn’t one of those times.

“You want us to stop.” Each syllable sounds like Lydia’s forcing it through stone.

“No more time travel experimentation,” Julia responds. “No more contact between you two at all.”

“Absolutely not,” Lydia says, just as Stiles snaps, “Fuck no.”

“This isn’t negotiable.”

“We will monitor magic activity in your locations,” Drake says.

“For, what, the rest of our _lives_?” Stiles can’t believe that. Surely these idiots have better things to do.

“Until we’re satisfied you no longer need such monitoring,” Julia replies.

“That’s ridiculous,” Stiles says. “That’s _bull_—”

“Fine,” Lydia says.

Stiles turns and gapes at her. “Uh, what?”

Her mouth is pursed and her eyes are narrowed. Her thinking face. Stiles watches her, mind whirring. Not speaking to her for six years until she uses a spell they’re still developing and he tracks her down in a Maine forest, that’s unthinkable. Letting two total strangers decide they get to watch the two of them for, what, the rest of their lives, or even the immediate future, just because they don’t like what he and Lydia are doing, that’s also unthinkable. The time travel thing will happen. He _knows_ it will. These two won’t stop them.

Huh.

These two won’t stop them.

“You’ve backed us into a corner,” Lydia says.

Stiles mentally tacks on a _for now_. “Lydia, we don’t have to let them back us anywhere.”

Lydia glances at him. “We won’t. We can and will push back. Through the proper channels.”

Julia and Drake don’t look exactly happy about that.

Stiles touches her shoulder. “Lyds. You’re my friend. I’m not going to stop talking to you.”

“You will until we figure this out.” She glares at the two druids. “Let me guess, you’re going to monitor us from here on out, and we can’t stop you.”

“Correct,” Drake says.

“So, no communication and no more time travel experiments,” Lydia says. “Put it in writing.”

Julia and Drake look annoyed. “That’s human legalese,” Julia says.

“You’ll do it if you want our cooperation,” Lydia snaps.

Drake mutters something into Julia’s ear. She rolls her eyes and disappears.

Lydia pulls Stiles away from the door. “You, stay there,” she says to Drake.

Once further inside the house, Stiles starts hissing. “You can’t seriously go along with this, Lydia.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” she hisses back. “We’ll protest it to their stupid organisation, we’ll get Deaton to help us, but in the meantime, we’ll comply. Or,” her eyes glint, “we’ll appear to.”

Stiles blinks at her. Appear to—wait, yeah. There are spells of silence, of blocking. They can create accounts with different names on their phones and social media. He just saved her new phone number under a different name; given just how recent her replacement phone and computer accounts are, it’s possible these assholes don’t have those details.

It’s just . . . it’s going to be _harder_, and this is already hard.

She’s pulled out her phone and is adjusting his name in it. As always, three steps ahead. “We’ll figure out a code for our work, or we can share it elsewhere. We just have to be careful. Under the radar, dark web, sporadic use of spells.”

“And what about—wait, you’re saving me as _Dylan_?”

She looks up. “What’s wrong with that name?”

“It’s so boring. Can’t I be something cool? Twombly. Fitzy. Bee.”

She rolls her eyes. “No. If we’re careful, we’ll be fine. We don’t see each other often anyway.”

“But we don’t _not_ talk to each other. What are we going to tell the others?”

She starts grinning.

His stomach sinks. “Lydia. No.”

“_Yes_.”

“We’re not going to lie to all of our friends.”

“I don’t see why not. It’s not that big of a lie anyway.” She gestures at his ring. “You’re marrying a werewolf who’s a total asshole.”

“Hey!”

“You’re an asshole too, you’re perfect for each other.” She takes his hand. “I don’t like it, but I’m glad you’re happy, okay? However, would telling them the truth be helpful? Two druids are power-mad and forcing us apart because we’ve done and will do some time travel magic—how would that not be complicated? It would raise more questions.”

She . . . has a point. There would be a _lot_ of questions, and he’d have to share what happened to him. It could throw off the whole paradox.

However, everything about this situation pisses him off. Like how dare these strangers show up and decide to wreck their lives like this. He’d cut off the nemeton’s supernatural mating call for a reason, damn it. “We should. Let’s fucking do it. We could tell everyone to just lie to younger me.”

She shakes her head. “No. Me being angry and dropping our friendship is clean and easy. You know what else I like about it? Insurance, blackmail and revenge.”

“What? _No_. That’s—insurance? _Revenge_? What the fuck?”

She leans in. “I know you love Peter and I suppose he’ll do anything for you, but honestly, don’t you want just a bit of backup? Some guilt to seal the deal? He does it all the time to us and to other people.” That grin sharpens. “As for revenge—I’m going to be there at the end, seeing him realise it. He’s going to know how much you kept back, how much I knew, and how _long_ you played this. He fucked with me and I want him to taste his medicine and I want to _see_ it.”

Stiles is honestly shocked, though the longer he takes it in, the less surprised he is. And now he regrets telling her. She’s always liked fucking with Peter—in fairness, he does too, but not like this—and if he hadn’t told her anything, they’d have come up with a different way of handling this situation. Fuck fuck fuck.

He briefly remember his dad mentioning he has a type, and suddenly he realises exactly what pops meant. “Still? After all this time?”

“Stiles. He awakened my banshee powers in the worst way. You don’t just get past that.” She shrugs. “Besides, it’s such a good opportunity to mess with him.”

“You want to mess with him, I don’t.”

“Oh come on, not even a little?”

“Lydia, _he might die._”

She tilts her head. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“And if he doesn’t, he’s not going to be in the mood to take this gracefully,” he adds. “We might be the ones dying.”

She waves him away. “Please, he wouldn’t do that.”

“We’re talking about the same Peter Hale, here, right?”

“If you two are talking about how to handle this with your social circles,” Drake calls from the front door, “a dramatic fallout over a personal wrong is usually a solid cover story.”

Stiles glares at him. “Yeah, you can back off with that kind of advice, dipshit—”

“See? We’re doing this,” Lydia says. “I know you want to comply with the paradox. This is how we do it.”

Somehow this has gotten away from him. “Yeah, but this is dark, even for you.”

“_This_ is dark? For real, Stiles?” She crosses her arms. “Fine. How do _you_ want to handle this?”

He wants to tell the druids to fuck off and back it up with some hefty blocking spells, then maybe go scare the heads of their organisation into leaving him and Lydia alone. It’s not a _better_ plan, but it’ll be more satisfying.

The thing is, he’s not coming up with a ton of other options. There aren’t any that won’t test the limits of the paradox beyond what his nerves can handle. Does he want to risk that? He could tell Peter everything, then coach him what to say to his younger self. He could tell everyone everything. He could kill those druids and damn the consequences.

The only thing that’s not on the table is stopping the time travel experiments. That can’t happen.

It seems Lydia’s plan of apparent compliance is their best option.

Like she’s reading his mind, she touches his arm gently. “It’s going to be okay. It’ll work out one way or another.”

He makes sure not to look at Drake. “I’m going to make sure those assholes hurt for thinking they can stop us like this.”

Lydia nods. “I’ll be right there with you.”

There’s a small surge of energy, and Julia is standing next to Drake, several papers in hand. “Here’s your paper trail,” she calls, sounding incredibly annoyed. “Let’s do this already.”

Stiles gazes at Lydia, something deep and inexpressible rising up in him. He pulls her into a hug, which she returns, tight and fierce. “I don’t want to not see you for years,” he whispers.

“Me either.” For the first time she sounds upset—or lets herself show it.

“You won’t be at the wedding,” he realises.

She sighs and squeezes him even tighter, somehow. “I will. I’ll make sure the wording is ‘communication’ and ‘experimentation together’, not ‘being in the same area’.”

After a few more minutes of hugging, they separate and return to the front door. There’s a back-and-forth about wording and clauses, and Jennifer has to disappear back to whatever organisation honchos she’s reporting to a number of times for fresh copies, but once it’s been adjusted so that everyone (Lydia) is happy, they sign it, and that’s it.

*

Stiles doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting on the sofa, but it must’ve been a few hours. He remembers coming home and checking out in a fog of sorrow and fury—mostly fury—then Peter’s standing in front of him. Which means he’s back from work and it’s the early evening. Peter looks worried. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles snorts. “Who says anything’s wrong?”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “Even if you weren’t giving off very strong chemosignals, the floating furniture would be a very strong indicator.”

Huh. He’s right. Everything’s floating a few inches in the air, including the sofa he’s on. “Fuck the furniture.”

Peter shakes his head, then wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist. Stiles notices dully how everything returns to the floor, back under the tyranny of gravity. Something in him calms down a little too, but not as much. “Thanks.”

“Stiles. What happened?”

He takes a deep breath. “Lydia hates that we’re getting married. So much so that we’re not speaking anymore.”

Peter frowns.

Stiles decides to look down at his feet instead of at Peter’s face. He’s torn, again, always, seriously torn, between admitting everything and going along with the lie. The thing is, he can word things so that it’s not a lie, but he feels so shit that he’s not sure he wants to. And some things will be outright lies and Peter will pick up on them and make him come clean anyway. That could happen, right?

He imagines spilling everything to Peter then laying out exactly what he should say to younger Stiles when he comes forward.

He imagines spilling everything to Peter, then Peter becoming furious and walking away. Would he leave him over something like this? Hopefully not.

Fulfilling this paradox is hard. This is shit. This is _such shit_.

“That doesn’t sound like her.”

Stiles laughs darkly. “Oh, she’s set on this. She never got over the whole—” he waves at Peter “—using-her-to-resurrect-yourself thing.”

“So she disapproves of me.” Peter sounds bored. “That’s nothing new. We’ve been together for years now. I’m not sure what her issue is with marrying. What’s the difference between us fucking and us fucking with tax benefits?”

Stiles shrugs.

Peter lets go of his wrist to rest his hands on Stiles’ thighs. “If you’re not speaking, it must’ve been some fight. What did she say, exactly?”

Stiles gestures vaguely. “Just . . . you’re an asshole, I’m an asshole, our relationship is messed up, she doesn’t want to pretend it’s not, she’s still angry, and other stuff.”

Peter is quiet for a beat too long. “Knowing you two, that’s tame.”

“Maybe I don’t want to rehash the details, Peter.”

Some air starts appearing between his feet and the floor again. Peter quickly touches his hand. “Fine, I get it. Good riddance then.” He kisses Stiles’ cheek, and somehow Stiles feels even worse. “If that’s what she wants, then whatever.”

“But _I_ don’t want that,” Stiles bursts out. “We’re _friends_, we talk _all the time_, she and I understand each other, she means so much to me, and without her there, without talking to her, how can I—” discuss time travel, discuss _the_ time travel. She and Deaton are the two people who know, and Deaton isn’t exactly someone Stiles can get drunk and rant about it to. Lydia is.

Fuck, how can he just _text_ her for years?

Peter puts one arm around his shoulder and holds him close, scenting his neck. It’s unconscious and automatic now, and Stiles honest-to-god _needs_ that. He grips Peter, bunches his shirt in his hands, and silently curses everything.

“You smell like her,” Peter says softly.

Stiles can just imagine what kind of picture Peter’s building from his clothes. He should’ve showered and changed.

Peter leans back, expression studious. “You’re not telling me everything.”

A chill runs through Stiles. “I can’t.”

Peter’s jaw clenches. “But you will one day?”

He gazes back and wonders at how they reached this particular level of understanding and trust. “Yes.”

Peter presses one hand against Stiles’ chest. “Keep the names in mind. Whoever hurt you will pay. Got it?”

Stiles nods.

**Facts; a complete list by Stiles Stilinski, continued**

19\. Time travel sucks.  
20\. Time travel sucks.  
21\. Time travel sucks.  
22\. Peter is clever and insightful and incredible and so, so worth it.  
23\. But time travel sucks.


	46. Chapter 46

Predictably, Peter tries to confront Lydia about it, but she threatens him with wolfsbane and shuts the door in his face. Stiles hears about it the next day and doesn’t feel any better, though he thinks it’s kind of awesome that Peter tried to patch things up.

The rest of the pack is about as happy as Stiles is at the news. He doesn’t elaborate on what happened, just gives the outline, and the others come to their own conclusions. Scott is immensely worried and tries to mediate, Derek just grunts, Erica and Boyd roll their eyes and assume they’ll make up within the month, and Mason, Corey, and Hayden make encouraging noises. Erica and Boyd’s daughter, Margot, just babbles, and Stiles makes it clear that her reaction is his favourite.

There’s only one pack hangout that happens and Stiles elects to skip it. So does Lydia.

*

Just before Christmas, Deaton tells Stiles that he received a visit too—same druids, same organisation, different warning. Basically, he’s supposed to do a better job keeping balance in the area and to watch out for Stiles doing time travel magic.

“Apparently time travel isn’t balanced,” Deaton explains drily.

“Did you explain the full thing?” Stiles asks.

“No. I’m not a member of their organisation and they don’t strike me as understanding.” Deaton straightens jars of herbs and solutions in his druid lair, as Stiles likes—and Deaton refers not—to call it. “They thought I wasn’t aware.” Deaton gives a small smile. “I’m not, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I mentor you, I don’t monitor you. I was shocked, dismayed, saddened, to learn you were experimenting with time travel.”

“You got me, doc.”

Deaton’s smile disappears. “Nonetheless, they have tabs on me too. I’ll have to provide periodic updates on you, so it would be helpful if you don’t give me any further details on your experiments. I’ll give you some runes and protective spells to block them, as I know you want to proceed without raising alarm, but you still have to be careful.”

Stiles nods. He’s started looking into those spells too, but hopefully Deaton has some tricks up his sleeve.

“I’ve also passed on contacts in the druid and magic user organisations I know to Lydia, and I understand from her that she’ll be raising a petition or bringing a case of some kind to those overseeing misuse of magic here in the States. I’m not sure if it’ll come to anything, but it’s good to try.”

Stiles salutes. “Anything I can do?”

Deaton nods. “Don’t get caught.”

*

The first time “Holly” contacts him, it’s to confirm a minor detail about fresh versus dried mugwort in their spell. He sends back a response.

Nothing happens—no druids knocking on his door, no lightning bolt through the window, no angry phone call.

Phew.

*

That spring, Peter is offered a job in San Francisco. He lays it out over dinner and watches Stiles intently as he processes it.

Of course it’s not a surprise, but what _is_ surprising is how okay Stiles is with the idea of leaving. Nothing’s haunted Beacon Hills in over a year. His dad is doing okay. The packs are growing—sort of. Scott’s still scouting for more betas, and Derek keeps popping in and out but has mentioned biting more betas eventually too. Erica, Boyd and Margot are happy. Even the supposed rift between Stiles and Lydia hasn’t destabilised the packs—it’s just that the atmosphere is different, the pack dynamics are almost unrecognisable to him, compared to six years ago. And demand for Stiles’ services is enough that he earns more from that than from his admin job.

It’s okay.

He can leave. _They_ can leave.

“I know you enjoy being here,” Peter is saying, “but I hope I can convince you to stay with me at the weekends at least.”

Stiles smiles. “Full-time sounds good.”

Peter drops his fork. “Full-time?”

“I don’t need to work at the police force anymore, I make enough doing magic stuff.” He wiggles his fingers to help illustrate.

“Darling, that’s immensely distracting.” Peter looks disbelieving. “So you want to come with me?”

“Are you asking me to?”

He nods immediately. “Yes. Move with me to San Francisco. We’ll walk through the parks and swim in the bay and never suffer bad coffee again.”

“Dramatic much? The coffee here isn’t that bad.”

Peter makes a face. “Stiles. Really.”

He throws up his hands. “It isn’t! You’ve never complained before. But yeah, obviously I’ll go.” He taps the table excitedly. “Dude. I want to live with you in a swanky-ass apartment for, like, ever. I wanna make fun of your wolfiness during full moons and watch you freak out over sourdough.”

Peter stands. “I’m going to feed you sourdough by hand every weekend.” He rounds the table and kisses him, dragging one hand down Stiles’ back to rest in the small of his back.

Stiles breaks the kiss and grins up at him. “San Francisco.”

“San Francisco.” Peter’s eyes gleam. “Maybe we can get married there.”

They haven’t planned the wedding yet. Asshole druids and Lydia disrupted a lot of Stiles’ general motivation for anything fun. Peter’s been taking the reins, suggesting locations and times of the year, but until this moment none of it has sunk in.

Like. _San Francisco_? Really? He can’t imagine getting married anywhere outside of Beacon Hills. “Uh, or we could set up a barbecue in the Preserve and bribe the rangers to keep away for a day?”

Peter straightens abruptly, hands leaving him, and walks back to his seat. “Oh my god. I’m marrying a cheapskate.” He sits and begins cutting his steak.

“We met in the Preserve! It’s like, poetic and symmetrical and beautiful. Circle of life stuff. Think of the _symbolism_.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “Stiles, my love, there’s nothing beautiful about how we met.”

Stiles gestures widely. “But the growth! The progress! Our love blossomed from rocky ground!”

“Hm. I see.” Peter’s expression turns resolute. “You’re banned from wedding planning.”

Unbelievable. “You can’t ban me.”

“I’m exerting fiancé prerogative and banning you.”

“That’s not a thing and you’re not doing it.”

Peter smirks. “It is and I am. What are you going to do about it?”

Stiles holds up one hand and lets electricity crackle from it. “Threaten you.”

Peter slowly chews a piece of steak, swallows, then says, “Oh no I feel so threatened. _Somehow_ I haven’t changed my mind.”

Stiles pushes himself away from the table, rounds it, and flings himself onto Peter’s lap. He might use just a little bit of magic to steady himself when Peter only winds one arm around his waist. Stiles bats his eyes at his fiancé. “Do you feel threatened now?”

Peter watches him warily. “Strangely, yes.”

“Good.” Stiles leans in. “I’ll contact all the rural packs in the Midwest and issue _special invitations_ on your behalf.”

“You’re threatening me with rednecks.”

“I’m threatening you with rednecks.”

Peter sighs. “I think I’d have preferred electric shocks. Fine. We each get veto power though.”

Stiles grins and kisses his cheek. “No take-backsies!”

Peter pouts. “I expected negotiations to go a little sexier.” He drops his fork and slides his hand up Stiles’ thigh.

“Well. We can still do that.” Stiles is so on-board with sexy negotiations. “Let’s start over: oh no! Don’t ban me from my _own wedding_—”

“—that wasn’t what I said—”

“—I can’t _bear_ it. What can I do to change your mind?” He bats his eyes again and plays with the buttons on Peter’s Henley.

Peter’s eyes flash blue. “Oh, I’ll tell you what you can do.”

*

Once they make the decision, everything moves very quickly. Stiles quits his job and starts packing his place up. He informs the packs, and while they’re sad, no one seems that surprised in the end. Stiles has multiple meals with his dad, who is sad and happy to see him go.

“I don’t think you were ever meant to be here forever, kiddo,” he says at one point.

“I’m twenty-seven,” Stiles says. “Not a kid anymore.”

John gives him a knowing look. “You’re always gonna be _my_ kid.”

*

They take multiple trips into San Francisco to view apartments, and Stiles deliberately makes sure he weighs up the options he sees fairly. He really loves some of the places they see, even though they aren’t _the_ apartment he remembers, and he says as much. Peter, unsurprisingly, is pickier.

A week before Peter’s job starts, they’re driving to yet another viewing, and Stiles is putting his foot down.

“I mean it,” he says. “I’m putting my foot down.”

Peter scoffs. “You’re _what_? Who _says_ that?”

“People who are pissed off that their _fiancé_ can’t choose an apartment to save his life. Just pick one! We’ve seen so many great places! They’re fine!”

Peter shakes his head. “Fine isn’t good enough. We’re _buying_. In _San Francisco._ We can’t settle for anything less than perfect.”

They pull up outside a modern building, multiple floors with shiny new glass and solar panels on the roof. There’s a car park entrance to the side. Stiles doesn’t remember leaving the apartment clearly, but this _does_ seem familiar. Peter scans the building up and down. “Promising,” he declares.

The estate agent takes them to the top floor and as soon as she takes them inside, Stiles knows this is the place. It looks bigger and cleaner than he remembers, but the layout is undoubtedly the same. He trails after Peter as the agent shows off the open plan kitchen with bar counter and bar stools, the adjoining dining area, which feeds through into the living room. Ceiling to floor windows deliver an outstanding view of San Francisco.

“And through here is what I call a quirky little extra,” the agent says, taking them to what looks like a cupboard door to the side of the living room. She opens it to show a small room. “Ta-da! More living space, but dedicated and separated from the rest of the apartment. You can do a lot with a space like this—home gym, office, library, nursery. It gets light year round.”

Stiles walks over to the thin, narrow window. It’s the very same one he remembers. He turns, visualising the bookshelves and plants, the desk, and the prepared box of books with a chalk message on the floor.

Peter watches him with a distinctly sharp expression. Stiles gazes at him as the agent steps back into the living room.

“You suit this place,” Peter says.

“So do you,” Stiles replies.

“This is the one.”

Stiles smiles. “I like it, but let’s see the bedroom before saying anything.”

Peter holds out his hand and Stiles takes it. They follow the agent, make polite noises about the master suite and bathroom, then Peter makes a cash offer that shocks the agent into silence.

*

During the move, some of Stiles’ bets come good. Very good. For the first time in his life, money is no longer a concern. It’s nice. Frees up some brain space to worry about everything else.

*

Stiles is unpacking two apartments’ worth of belongings by himself. Peter’s at work, the traitor. He’s considering throwing out entire boxes sight unseen when the doorbell rings. He lurches up and ushers in delivery guys. Peter went on a shopping spree for various pieces of furniture, without Stiles because he was involved in a genie emergency in Nevada, and over the last few days, various surprising things have turned up. None of it looks familiar, but all of it is stylish, so he’s not complaining.

Today is a sofa set, so he directs them to the living room. They carry everything in, strip the packaging, then leave. Stiles finds himself staring at a pristine white sofa, a matching armchair, and a distinctly fuzzy yellow ottoman. He calls Peter.

“This better be important,” Peter answers.

“A _yellow ottoman_?”

“Oh good, the sofa stuff’s arrived.”

“It’s fuzzy! And yellow!” Stiles gestures at it, even though Peter’s not there and can’t see him. “You say you’re the one with taste, so how did this happen?”

“It reminded me of you. Is that it? Gotta go, balls deep in affidavits here.” He hangs up.

Stiles stares at his phone, then at the ottoman, then sighs very loudly.

*

A Facetime from Scott interrupts an otherwise quiet evening of studying his notebooks and compiling yet more notes. Stiles has to write a primer to magic for his younger self—there’s no way he got through everything in Maine without it, but he can’t remember every single detail anymore. So for now he’s going to collect all the basics about magic and casting it. He has a _lot_ of notebooks, so the distraction is welcome.

“Scotty!” he beams at his phone. “How’s it hanging?”

Scott grins back at him. “Good. There’s a bunch of us here.” He pans his phone around, showing Erica and Boyd on the living room floor playing with Margot. They wave and Margot yells.

Stiles coos. “She’s so cute! And so big!”

Scott nods. “She’s getting bigger every week. It’s crazy. How’s San Francisco?”

“Good, dude, good. Quiet.”

“No monsters needing attention?”

Stiles shrugs. He’s planted wards all over their apartment and building. He put up specific ones around his study, to offset AODE monitoring. Peter’s heard of some supernatural activity here and there, but the local alpha seems to have things in hand and hasn’t asked for their help. “Not from us.”

“Nice.”

They chat life shit. Scott looks good—relaxed, more buff. Erica and Boyd are doing well. Margot is adorable and tries to eat the phone when they give Stiles a close-up. Stiles walks into the kitchen, where Peter is assembling dinner, and everyone gets a wave.

He’s venting about magic-carrying materials when the doorbell rings. Peter answers, so Stiles continues yakking about the latest spell he’s trying to fine tune for his site.

“Stiles? It’s for you.”

Stiles ducks his head into the hallway. Drake Hodges is standing just inside the doorway, expectantly looking at him. Peter has a carefully blank expression.

Well shit.

“Gotta go, Scotty,” Stiles says rapidly. “Unexpected guest.”

“Okay dude, speak later—”

Stiles hangs up and approaches the druid. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Drake darts a glance at Peter. “Yes, well, I heard you’d moved, and thought I’d visit.”

Stiles nods.

There’s a lingering silence.

“Welp, I’m here,” Stiles says eventually. “That everything?”

Drake shakes his head. “You didn’t tell us that you moved.”

Stiles smirks. “Didn’t have to, did I?” _Because you’re watching me_ is left unsaid.

“How do you know each other?” Peter asks.

“Work,” Drake says, just as Stiles says, “We don’t.”

Drake glares at Stiles, who bats his eyes innocently and adds, “Not well. We’re still forming this ‘friendship’, aren’t we?”

“Uh-huh.” Peter doesn’t sound convinced, though he does sound intrigued.

Drake sighs. “This is just a friendly check-in. No need for dramatics.” He holds out his hand. “Phone, please.”

Stiles reluctantly hands it over. Drake goes through a number of chats and the call log, then hands it back. “Thanks.”

“We done?”

“Sure.” Drake makes a gesture and disappears.

Peter closes the door. “What the hell was that about? Who’s he?”

Stiles feels a headache coming on. “It’s a long story.”

“This is related to the Lydia thing from Christmas, right?”

Stiles shoots him a sharp glance. “What makes you say that?”

“Same chemosignals are coming off you.” Peter locks the door for good measure. “Plus Deaton might’ve mentioned you’re in hot water with some druids. I know for a fact certain ones have been sniffing around you for years. This is the first time one’s come so close though. Our front door, Stiles.”

“I know.”

Peter takes his hand and steps in close. “I’ve waited long enough. Name. Just his.”

Stiles sighs. “Peter, it’s fine. It’s under control.”

“I have stir fry that’s slowly burning. Give me his name.”

Knowing Peter, he’s considering less than legal or ethical solutions to unwanted druids. Stiles should’ve known Peter would dig. He probably already knows more than he’s letting on. And this really is too much. It’s beyond okay. Maybe Stiles likes the idea of Peter hunting these assholes down. “Drake Hodges. He represents AODE.”

Peter kisses his cheek, then runs to rescue the stir fry.

Stiles returns to his study, mind turning this over. He and Lydia haven’t mentioned AODE much lately—both of them have been working and studying magic—but this visit has annoyed him.

By the time Peter announces dinner’s ready, Stiles has gone over his contract. The signatures at the bottom are just Julia and Drake’s, but they’re signing on behalf of ‘The Board’. So AODE has a Board. Good to know.

*

Dylan: _[boardmembers.rtf]_

Dylan: _I think thats every1_

Holly: _Nice work._

Dylan: _thks_

Holly: _I just cross-referenced these names, and I can add one more. Here’s the updated list._

Holly: _[assholes.rtf]_

Dylan: _thks_

Dylan: _look at the fifth name on the list_

Holly: _Wait. Same guy?_

Dylan: _yh_

Holly: _Wow. WOW. This is karma._

Dylan: _Peter knows somethings up_

Dylan: _he doesn’t like unexpected visits_

Holly: _They came to you too? In front of him? Morons._

Holly: _One of these druids lives here. Not that I need any more on my plate, but maybe I can organise someone’s early retirement._

Dylan: _if ne1 can its u_

*

Dawn light filters gently into the room. Stiles wakes up slowly, luxuriously. He’s comfortable, with a warm body behind him and comfy sheets all around him. He takes a moment to blink and take in the reality of being awake, then turns over and presses closer to Peter.

Peter’s awake, but barely. His face is gentle in the last stages of sleep, and his hair is mussed. Stubble softens his jaw, the hairs shining blond in the early light. Without opening his eyes, he wraps an arm around Stiles and lazily scents him. Stiles lets him then tucks his head under Peter’s chin and closes his eyes. In a moment one of them will slide out of bed and start making coffee and breakfast, but that’s not now. Now is for slow breathing and wordless comfort. This is sleepy, cosy perfection. If he has his way, they’ll always wake up like this.

*

Seven months into San Francisco life, Stiles walks into his study with a fresh cup of coffee, yawning and trying to wake up, and discovers a Batman mug on his desk.

He eyes it blearily. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t own a Batman mug. Which, on reflection, is a travesty.

He walks up to the desk and cautiously surveys the mug. It looks like a normal ceramic decorative mug. There’s a wristwatch in it, the numbers on the face stating it’s 4.18. He double-checks his phone and it’s definitely just after nine o’clock.

Hm.

He snaps a picture and sends it to Lydia.

Dylan: _[image]_

Dylan: _thoughts?_

Holly:_ I think that’s an experiment from the future._

Dylan: _:O me tooooo_

Dylan: _!!!!!!_

Dylan: _THERE R NO CLUES FUCK_

Dylan:_ how do we do this shit_

Dylan:_ Y IS FUTURE ME ALWAYS SO UNHELPFUL_

Holly: _Don’t stress, it’s a sign we figure it out._

Dylan:_ IT’S STILL HERE._

Holly: _Breathe_

Dylan: _IM BRAEHTING_

Dylan: _I don’t own a mug like this_

Holly: _Guess you’re gonna._

Stiles works around the mug until it disappears two weeks later.

*

Despite much bickering and multiple vetoes, they plan their wedding.

Stiles walks in front of his dad and friends to the officiator and it feels kind of surreal. He’s in a suit that fits him better than everything else he owns, and there are balloons and flowers festooned artistically around the hotel conservatory. He wanted a balloon arch, which Peter vetoed, and Peter wanted petals on the carpet, which Stiles and the hotel vetoed, so this is their compromise.

Peter is walking from the other direction. His suit is also fitted, and his tie matches his eyes. Stiles can’t stop looking at him, because he’s so handsome and so _happy_. It’s bursting out of him like sunlight.

They meet in the middle, in front of the officiator, and Peter takes his hand.

Planning for this moment feels like it’s taken years, even though it was actually over just one year. They got lucky with this hotel, which looks over Beacon Hills from one of said hills. The Preserve and the city forms a backdrop from the conservatory they’re currently in, and their wedding package includes an open bar. Stiles paid extra for the food they wanted and Peter coordinated the decorations and somehow it all came together.

Somehow he’s standing in front of the man he loves, about to marry him.

The realisation that he’ll have, for sure, four years of marriage flashes through him. He pushes it down.

The officiator is talking, and Stiles hardly hears a word. The celebratory whisky he shared with Scott and his dad this morning burns in his stomach, sending warmth through him, and his mouth is dry.

“Repeat after me, Stiles,” the officiator says.

He does. I, Mieczyslaw Stilinski, take this man—heh—Peter Hale, to be my lawfully wedded husband. Something about life, death, sickness, health yadda yadda. He finishes it, then adds in a rush, “I love you so much. My idea of romance was someone acknowledging I existed, and you changed that. You showed me what love means. I’m yours, and you’re mine, and I’ll never leave you.”

He pushes the ring on Peter’s finger, hands shaking slightly.

At those words, Peter’s mouth twists in a way that Stiles recognises as him trying to contain his emotions, but there’s a distinct sheen in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He recites his vows too, voice clear, then adds, “You’re the brightest part of my day, and you have been since I woke up from the coma. You make me happier than I ever expected or allowed myself to be. I love you and I always will.” He puts Stiles’ ring on for him, then steadies his hands by folding both of them in his.

More words from the officiator, and Stiles is waiting for that final amazing moment when she pronounces them married then she does and Peter is kissing him and it’s perfect perfect perfect.

*

The pack cries. Even Boyd does. Erica denies she cried, but Derek has video proof. His dad doesn't even bother hiding his tears. A lot of hugging happens. Kira flew over from Japan and Stiles dances a lot with her. Lydia is there in the background, glamour keeping people from remembering she’s there when she stops talking to them. Their wedding video shows she’s there though. It means everything. And once he gets all the photos and video from their photographer and videographer, Stiles makes sure it’s password-protected on his computer.

*

Their honeymoon is in Mexico. Stiles let Peter choose the place, meaning all the frills, all the conveniences, all the booze. They enter their suite—penthouse, naturally—to find a space bigger than their apartment, a fruit platter, champagne on ice, a Jacuzzi, and a view to die for. The bed is huge, comfy, and covered in petals. Stiles insists on fucking on top of them—“We’re married! It’s what couples do!”—then they’re lounging in dressing gowns drinking the champagne and discussing dinner options when the power goes out.

It seems that typhoon season is a thing and this year it’s lasting longer than expected. After some alarming smashing noises from other places in the hotel, they decamp to the foyer with the other guests while the storm calms down, clean-up happens, and power is restored. The bar is still serving drinks—in fact, they can’t get rid of ice quick enough--so Stiles gets them drinks from the bar. When he returns to the foyer, he finds Peter lying in a nest of blankets and pillows, and he starts laughing.

“What?” Peter asks, reaching for his mojito.

Stiles hands him the drink then plunks down next to him. “Nothing. You’re ridiculous.”

Peter shrugs. “I have rum and you. What more could a man want?”

Stiles studies him, then leans in. “I think we both know what you want.”

Peter reaches for him. “In front of all these people? Well, it’s dark enough. If you’re game, fine, though I draw the line at full nudity.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No. I mean alphahood.”

Peter pauses. “How . . . upfront.” He sips his mojito. “It’s hardly a secret, though it’s not as much of a priority as it used to be.”

Stiles watches water condense on the glass of his rum punch. “I figured.”

“You taught me that, my love. How to find meaning in other things, other pursuits. Other types of power.”

He smiles, pleased. “I know. But I want to help you get that again.” He’s probably going to regret this. It’s too much. But he says it anyway. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re an alpha again.”

Peter gives him a fond look. “Thank you. It’s not that simple or just up to you, but thank you.” He sets his glass down and reaches into his pocket. “Seeing as we’re making promises to each other, I have one for you.” He puts a folded piece of paper in Stiles’ lap.

He picks it up and unfolds it. On it is a list of names. Familiar ones. Three are crossed out.

He gapes at Peter. “How—”

Peter shrugs. “I have my ways. And your search history. It was easy enough to make a list and start working on it. I don’t know who in particular came up with the idea to monitor you, but given they’re a board, they’re all complicit. So. They’re all on my list to visit. My present to you, sweetheart.”

One of the crossed-out names is Drake Hodges. “Guess you didn’t want any interruptions while we’re in happy hubby fuckweek.”

“Not particularly, no,” Peter says drily. “Didn’t I veto that phrase with extreme prejudice?”

Stiles leans over and kisses him. “Thank you.” Not just for finding them, but taking care of some of them. In fairness, Stiles is trying too, but he’s been kind of busy, so he’s only focused on one. He’s got a bunch of legal nooses tightening around him, so number four is just a matter of time.

Peter seems pleased. “I should confess that this one—” he taps one of the names “—retired early. Not my doing, but fortunate for him, given what happened to these two.”

Retired early. Probably Lydia’s work.

But wow. Even for them, this is edging into too much. Stiles isn’t sure where to begin. He has to tell him. He _has_ to. “Look, about why—”

“Stop," Peter says quietly. "I know you. I know what you’re capable of and how you think. Whatever AODE has on you, it’s bullshit. And I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready. In the meantime, I’ll help you take down the lot of them. That’s my promise to you. This is what my vows mean to me. Do you understand?”

Stiles' face grows hot, and his heart grows three sizes bigger. Damn. He builds up the pillows and blankets around them, so that they’re almost cocooned, and moves into Peter's lap, wrapping his limbs around him so that they're fully connected, from head to toe. Even in the middle of a storm and a crazy night in this incredibly expensive hotel, there's literally no other place he'd rather be, and no other person he'd rather be with. “I knew there was a reason I loved you.”

“I'm perfect,” Peter says.

Stiles rolls his eyes, then kisses a line down Peter's neck, enjoying the shudder that rolls through his wolf. Maybe not perfect, but perfect for him.


	47. Chapter 47

_-3 years_

Stiles gets one done for embezzling funds. He goes on a feral omega capture mission and ‘accidentally’ kills another while in the area. Lydia quietly disappears one, and encourages another to permanently move countries. Peter doesn’t share details of what he does, just crosses out two more.

*

Julia seems nervous when she visits Stiles and inspects his place. She’s a lot more thorough than Drake—she scans his phone, laptop, and the apartment, looking for pictures of Lydia and anything about time travel. She never seems to pick up on his warded study.

“Everything okay?” Stiles asks as she hands back his phone. “You seem tense.”

She nods. “Fine. All good. Stay out of trouble.” She disappears.

*

Deaton: _AODE has contacted me. Apparently their board is being targeted. Thought you’d be interested._

Stiles: _oh wow I had no idea_

Stiles: _whats going on_

Deaton: _I’ve only heard details on the grapevine, but apparently nine of their board members have died or stepped down in two years. Strange._

Stiles: _yh weird_

Deaton: _Only four left. So I hear. They keep electing new druids to the positions, though there aren’t many willing to take the positions._

Stiles: _what a shame_

Deaton: _I figured you’d enjoy the news. I know there’s no friendship between you and AODE. The new board might be more lenient with you and Lydia. How goes preparations?_

Stiles: _were getting there_

_-2 years_

Stiles thinks he’s cracked the spell. He’s pretty sure he has.

When he receives a birthday package from Scott containing multiple familiar magic books and a Batman mug, he knows he’s on the right path.

*

Stiles and Peter take multiple business trips. One results in a death, another in a curse. Two more names off the list.

*

John retires with illustrious honours and a big party that half the county seems to attend. Stiles is so proud of him, and so glad all the diet advice paid off and continues to pay off. John’s going white and is full of energy, and Stiles vocally allows him full reign at the buffet.

“It’s basically because of me that he’s here to see this,” he tells more than one person. “He’s allowed to enjoy himself.” At one point, John wraps one arm around him and drags him away to mutter a gentle rebuke, and it’s so like being a teen again that Stiles spontaneously hugs him tight, speechless with gratitude.

_-1 year_

Stiles finishes writing the primer. He leans back from his laptop and stretches, back cracking. He can hardly believe it—it’s done. Finito. He can’t remember the exact title, so he types in _Magic: A Primer. Written by Stiles Stilinski for Stiles Stilinski_, because he think his younger self would appreciate a title like that.

He still has to print this out and add in helpful notes. That shouldn’t take too long.

*

It shouldn’t, but it does. It takes months, most of which is spent deciding what he wants to say, how much he can share, what he can’t or doesn’t want to share, and how to word things.

He keeps wanting to add things, but he can’t share too much. Things need to happen in a particular way, and he doesn’t want to scare his younger self or Peter. It’s the same logic that’s kept him quiet and kept him working towards the paradox. Over and over again, it’s about the stupid time travel paradox.

He refers to his notes constantly.

It’s sometimes awful to realise he’s forgotten a particular detail, or misremembered how something was worded. Ugh. There are so many ways this can go wrong.

Once this is done, he’s never doing anything like this again.

_-8 months_

Stiles: _hey_

Stiles: _visiting bh in two weeks _

Stiles: _got some notes for you ;)_

Stiles: _SPECIAL ONES ;)_

Deaton: _Hi Stiles. Understood. It will be nice to catch up in person. Are you ready?_

Stiles: _still ironing out some stuff but for the most part yeah_

Deaton:_ It will be fine._

Stiles: _it has to be_

_-6 months_

Peter comes home late from a business trip. “Honey, I’m home.”

“That wasn’t funny five years ago and it’s not funny now,” Stiles calls back. There’s no heat to it though. He’s relishing all these stupid moments.

Not enough to get off the sofa to physically meet Peter, though. _Lucifer_ waits for no man.

Peter comes through and drops a lock of hair and a business card in Stiles’ lap.

Ah. Well.

He pauses _Lucifer_ and picks both up. The lock is long, wavy, brown, and sleek. The card reads _Julia Baccari, Emissary_.

“No way,” he breathes.

Peter smirks. “She was tough, but like all these druids, had a shitty grasp of one particular element. The element of surprise. Which I tend to have in abundance.”

“Ugh. You’re not funny.” Stiles stands up and throws his arms around Peter’s neck. “Thank you.” He hugs him close. “I missed you.”

Peter pulls him tight and scents him, nuzzling his neck and running his hands along Stiles’ spine. “This will stop the visits for a _long_ time.”

It will. Hopefully forever. Stiles had been worried about how he’d tackle Julia in particular, as she’s dedicated about checking in on him and Lydia, but now he and Lydia should be in the clear. From memory, there’s maybe one or two druids left.

Whatever the new Board does about their petition remains to be seen, but he’s pretty sure that after what’s about to happen, they’ll be amenable to just letting the whole thing go.

“She mentioned something about you breaking certain conventions, certain laws,” Peter says. “I, ahem, _interrupted_ her, but I want to tell you that the curiosity is getting to me more and more.”

Stiles grins. “It’s a good thing you’re not a cat.”

Peter leans back, his gaze piercing. “Stiles. I think I have an idea of what this is about.”

He lets the grin fade. Peter has been extraordinarily patient, and Stiles has practised his explanation over and over. He’s so tired of waiting.

Hell. Now’s a good time.

“Time travel.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Hilarious. My money was on nemeton control, given the extent of your powers. You have the entire west coast indebted to you. Really, what is it?”

“I mean it. Time travel.” Stiles taps his chest. Heartbeats don’t lie. “I’ve time travelled, and I’m going to do it again. It happened to me when I was younger. I was pulled forward to this time, the present, soon, and my older self went back. We swapped—I think. I’m not sure.”

Peter stares at him, then sits down abruptly on the sofa. “I’m pretty certain time travel is out of most people’s reach, supernatural and otherwise.”

Stiles nods. “It is and it should be.”

“But you did it. You’re going to do it again.”

Stiles’ heart swells. He’s not sure what does it, but Peter believes him.

Peter’s got his thinking face on and he rubs one thumb against his other hand absently. “When you were younger? When? What age?”

“College. I was in college.”

Peter exhales sharply. “That’s young.” He frowns, then a realisation clears his face. “This explains . . . a few things. _Oh_. All those bets you made.”

“Yup.”

“I knew you had inside knowledge somehow. No one gets that lucky. Genius. You’re perfect.” Something occurs to him. “Stiles. _Stiles_. We could’ve made a _killing_ on the stock market. Oh my god, all the wasted opportunities. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Stiles is ready. “Spoilers.”

“No. Come on.”

Stiles makes a face. “Seriously? I don’t know shit about the stock market. I wasn’t looking at the news that much.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “What _were_ you doing?”

Stiles clears his throat. “Someone we know will be in danger, and I have to help them. Helping them will complete the paradox, and send me back.”

"That's it? That's all you're going to tell me?"

"Spoilers! But don't worry. We can handle it."

“I’m going with you, right?”

Stiles squeezes his shoulder. “I want you to. But you don't—”

“Whatever happens, I’m going with you.” Peter’s eyes flare blue. “The idea of you—a younger you—being clueless and alone in this time and place doesn’t make me happy. It’s not going to happen.”

Stiles gazes at him, his heart swelling more. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

Peter kisses his hand. “I can see why AODE doesn’t like you.”

Stiles nods and explains about his experiments. “I’ve spent most of the last twelve years studying time travel, and they found out about it.” His stomach sinks. “I promise, it’s just to make sure it happens. I don’t want to fuck with time travel anymore after this. But none of that matters to these guys, and frankly, I’m glad they’re out of the picture.”

“Yes, they are.” Peter smirks. “Well. Except one.”

Stiles stands. “Getting the list.” He retrieves it from his study and unfolds it on his way back to the sofa. The list of names is decimated, struck through one after the other. Only two remain unstruck, and one of them is _Julia Baccari_.

The other is _Robert Anderson_.

Stiles reaches the sofa and hands Peter the list. “You’re right. Only one left.”

Peter scans it. “Ah, yes. He’s proven difficult to pin down.” He pulls out a pen and runs it through Julia’s name, then grins toothily. “He’ll slip up at one point. They all have.”

Stiles glances at the lock of hair and business card on the coffee table, stomach doing somersaults. “I . . . yeah. You’re right. But, uh, no rush.”

“Oh no. We need to let the dust from Baccari’s death settle first.” Peter puts the list down and reaches for him. “Come here. I’ve spent a whole ten days away from you. Nothing smells right.”

Stiles lets himself be pulled onto Peter’s lap. “That shouldn’t be as romantic as it is.” He strokes his fingers through Peter’s hair and studies him. Somehow, even after all this time, he can still find parts of Peter’s face new and beautiful. It takes his breath away. Still. “You’re amazing.”

Peter tilts his head. “Not that you’re wrong, but you’re unusually serious.”

“Yeah, well, just realising—again—how lucky I am.” Stiles kisses him. “Not every husband would just roll with taking out a druid organisation and unexpected time travel.”

Peter slides his hand under Stiles’ shirt, pressing his palm against the skin of Stiles’ back. “Sweetheart, you’ve been one of the best things in my life since I woke up from the coma. If I’m going to be taking down shady organisations and dealing with monsters in forests and swamps, there’s no one I’d rather have at my side.” He pulls Stiles in closer, eyes unbelievably blue in the lamplight. “Your powers keep developing, my love. You’re unstoppable.”

Stiles kisses him again. “We. We’re unstoppable.”

Another palm joins the first and starts trailing up Stiles’ back, taking his shirt with it. “True. Imagine if I were an alpha too.” Peter peppers kisses along Stiles’ jaw before yanking his shirt off. “We’d take over the world.”

Stiles trails a thumb down Peter’s gloriously thick neck. “Give it time, hon.”

“Your confidence in me is inspiring.” Peter shifts under him, hands at Stiles’ waistband. “In the meantime, there’s something else of yours I want in me.”

Stiles pushes him down. “Your wish is my command.”

_-3 months_

Dylan: _u put the spell together_

Dylan: _?_

Holly: _Received your package yesterday. Starting assembly today._

Holly: _I can and can’t believe this is happening._

Holly: _I’m making a time travel spell._

Dylan: _hey without me u wd have nothin_

Holly: _I’d have something, just maybe later in life._

Holly: _It feels surreal._

Holly: _Everything about this does._

Dylan: _yh I no wat u mean_

Holly: _Why haven’t you turned autocorrect on? It’s been years. YEARS._

Dylan: _pointless_

Holly: _I’m changing your name in my phone back. With only 1 left, who’s watching?_

Stiles: _fair enough_

Stiles: _were about to make up after years of fighting!!_

Stiles: _I’m excited!_

Holly: _Me too. It’ll be nice to spend time with you again._

Stiles: _yh_

Stiles: _all the drinks_

Holly: _Imagine everyone’s faces._

Stiles: _oh I’m imagining *smiling devil emoji*_

_-3.5 weeks_

Holly:_ I’ve heard some crazy rumours coming from Maine and I’m being drawn to that area. Just emailed Alpha Bowen._

Holly:_ I think this is it._

Stiles:_ holy shit omg ur prepared right!??!?!?!?!?!??_

Holly: _No, I have no idea what’s coming or what to expect._

Holly: _^ sarcasm_

Holly: _Come on._

Stiles: _I no but its going to be rough be prepared_

Holly: _I have the spell, I have potions, I have the best arctic jacket money can buy. We have the plan nailed down. I’m going to be fine._

Stiles: _okay_

Stiles: _oh btw one more thing pls have water ready for us when you hike in_

Holly: _You’re so demanding._

_-25 minutes_

Stiles mentally runs through his list as he walks from the bathroom to the bedroom.

Toiletries—check.

Phone on charge—check.

Lunch and bag packed—check.

Wallet and keys readied—check.

Books collected and message left for himself in the study—check.

Dressed instead of half-naked—check.

Breakfast eaten—not checked; his stomach is in knots and he can’t make himself do it.

Peter’s adjusting his tie in the wardrobe mirror and smiles at him. Peter in a suit: sharp, tailored, and the subject of _many_ fantasies. There’s a small stab of regret that Stiles didn’t push more for office quickies, but Peter is resolute that his colleagues don’t deserve the excitement and Stiles like to think he’s wiser these days.

He smiles back and goes over to him. He winds his arms around Peter’s waist and places a kiss against his neck. Breathes him in. Scent. Touch. Warmth. “Don’t forget your lunch.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes. How do I look?”

Stiles smirks at him in the mirror. “Like you’re ready to tear the opposition apart.”

“Damn right.”

Stiles reluctantly lets him go. Peter leaves the bedroom, and a message lights up Stiles’ phone. Weird. He’s cleared his schedule precisely because he knows he’ll be out for the next week at least. No one should be texting him right now.

His stomach knots further and he picks it up.

Holly: _Done_.

Wait.

Wait, _what_?

It’s not like they timed this exactly, because Stiles only remembers the date, not the precise time, but even so . . . Lydia’s early.

He’s still here.

Oh shit. Their spell didn’t work.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Stiles heads into the living room and gazes at it, hoping the décor will help. The expensive art Peter insisted on, the stupid yellow ottoman he kind of loves now, the open and modern living space they delightedly take for granted; none of it tells him what to do.

“You okay in there?” Peter calls.

Stiles must be giving off emotions like crazy. “Yup!” he calls back.

Lydia will be confronting Robert right now. This exact moment as he’s standing here deliberating. Stiles is still _here_, still _present_. That’s not what’s supposed to happen.

Fuck.

He could change it. _He _could go, this him, present him. Stiles looks at his hands, at his feet. He knows what’s going on, what will happen, and what they need to do. He could, could pretend, he could go _himself_ because he’s got all the answers already and he knows how to use his magic. He wouldn’t need to put Peter at risk.

Ah, and if he goes, Peter will follow, for sure. Even if Stiles explains everything, Peter would help him, and they’d emerge victorious. Peter would definitely, _definitely_ live.

But then what?

The paradox would collapse. Either here or in the past. He’s logicked this out time and time again, and always reaches the same conclusion: Young Stiles wouldn’t come forward and then wouldn’t go back to set all this up. Young Stiles would make other life choices—like, what? Stay in Beacon Hills? Leave? Develop a non-magic career? Try for the FBI? Date someone else?

Well. College and his past self are a little fuzzy now, but Stiles honestly isn’t sure his younger self would have ever hit on Peter, not seriously. They’d had rapport and unspoken acknowledgement of attractiveness, but seriously considering each other as partners? As _life_ partners? Nope. Hell no.

If he hadn’t come forward in time, he wouldn’t have seen Peter at his best.

He wouldn’t have fallen for him.

They wouldn’t be together.

That same core feeling which made him reach out to Deaton all those years ago and admit that he wanted to pursue this relationship, it rises thick in his mouth like bile and he almost chokes on it.

He can’t stay.

He won’t stay.

He won’t lose this.

He won’t even _risk_ losing this.

Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates. Magic thrums through him, gathering in his palms and lips. He reaches deep inside himself. He digs down, deep down, further into himself and his magic and what he understands about how life and magic work together, anchoring his body now and in the past. He thinks of Lydia, trapped unendingly with Robert in the Maine winter. He thinks about the day of the gryphon attack and himself, his younger self, his body, how his body existed then and exists now and is therefore a fixed point in time and space. He thinks of how Lydia will be freed.

Then he opens his eyes and casts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need a reminder of what happens in the clearing right before Stiles returns, follow this here linky-link back to that chapter.


	48. Epilogue

Stiles is suddenly unbalanced and he forces himself to straighten. He falls enough that the potion slops over his hands and a small amount spills on the ground. He takes a breath, because dear god, he’s in the chalked circle, the pack stand around him—Erica, Lydia, Peter, Cora, Boyd and Isaac rolling their eyes or sighing while Scott gives him the _come ON Stiles_ look he perfected during middle school—and he’s mid-spell.

Shit, it _worked_.

It’s been twelve years since he was interrupted in the middle of this, but part of preparing for today involved remembering the next steps of this spell. It’s ludicrously simple compared to what he does now, but he has to take this seriously.

He drains the herbs while chanting, burns them—using a lighter because his younger body doesn’t have the magic he’s now used to, which is _so_ strange—then turns on his heel as the chalk lights up brightly. The pack collectively swear and avert their eyes.

Stiles scans the circle quickly and finds him: Peter, hand shielding his eyes from the brightness. Holy _shit_ he looks young. They all do—almost like children, the difference is that dramatic. Peter’s handsome though, almost unbearably so. Stiles takes a few steps towards him, wishing he could—

A loud screech erupts nearby and everyone turns to the window, claws and weapons at the ready.

He’s just a spark now, so he’ll be of no help, and he thinks he’s meant to stay out of this fight. Stiles sprints for the division separating the bathroom from the rest of the loft, Lydia right behind him.

There he waits and listens while the pack battles the gryphon, and tries not to grin too much. This is it. It’s _finally_ happening. He’s doing it, and better yet, he gets to see everyone young again. He can see Isaac once more. He gets to stare at his twenty-year-old skin in amazement because the difference is visible. His arms are skinnier. His whole body feels lighter. And how did he function for so long with _this_ small of a spark in him? It’s fucking ridiculous.

“Something wrong with your hands?” Lydia asks.

He lowers them. “Nope.”

“You were good out there,” Lydia says.

Stiles can barely hear her over the roaring, howling, and shouting as the wolves fight the gryphon. “Thanks.”

“You saved that spell. For a moment, I thought you were going to spill the entire pot.”

“Yeah, I thought I did too. I mean, was going to.”

She frowns. “You were _really_ calm.”

A particularly loud crash makes them jump, and she exhales heavily. “I hate this part.” Awful wet noises follow and she squeezes her eyes shut. She’s so lovely, even like this. Not that Stiles will ever admit that aloud, not when Peter isn’t there to get riled up.

Well, he _is_, but he’s a little distracted and isn’t in love with Stiles yet.

“It’ll be okay,” Stiles says.

She opens her eyes. “Yeah.” One side of her mouth quirks in a smile. “Told you the oregano would be fine.”

Stiles knows now the circle would’ve been more powerful with marjoram, but he doesn’t say so. The spell still worked in the end. Intent won out. It always does. “Guess you’re right.”

She frowns as the noises stop. Erica lets out a whoop, which seems to signal victory. He thinks, _Any minute now_, and then power is surging through his body, almost infusing him. It’s dizzying.

Lydia’s watching him, eyes wide. He’s not sure what he looks like, but the rush of power makes him shudder and sway. He reaches for the wall to stabilise himself—

—the wall isn’t there and he’s in darkness—no, it’s night time and he’s in a stark clearing of earth, surrounded by the distant silvery shapes of trees, dressed in winter gear, and fucking freezing. The chill is down to his bones, dangerously so, and he instinctively sends some magic into his clothing to keep him warmer. Starlight illuminates the clearing, and he sees the older, beautiful Lydia he knows so well grin at him over the shrivelled remains of a man Stiles hasn’t seen in twelve years.

And to his left, on his knees over Bowen’s body and finishing the job, is Peter. He slumps over and moans, his wounds finally healing.

Stiles could cry. He honestly could.

It worked.

Oh god it all actually worked.

He’s back and things are the same.

And Peter’s _alive_.

He draws in a breath then coughs at the shock to his lungs. “Fuck.” It comes out as a croak; his throat is on fire with thirst. He immediately pats at his chest and feels his ring safe on the chain under his shirt. Thank fuck—still there. His hand feels weird without it, so he takes the chain off and puts the ring back on.

Lydia’s shaking her head. “You haven’t changed at all, Peter.”

Peter sinks back onto his haunches, rolling his shoulders. “Lydia. Can’t you, for once, let me enjoy the moment?”

She rolls her eyes and heads over to Stiles. “Stiles, I’m so glad the spell worked. I . . . think?” She glances up. “Why is it suddenly the middle of the night? Did the spell make it through? This asshole—” she kicks at Robert’s leg as she passes his body “—and his shitty magic saturation bullshit messed up everything I tried while I was in here. I really wasn’t sure what we planned would work.”

“It didn’t,” Stiles says. “His magic interfered and kept you two trapped in a timelock. I had to break it.”

Peter struggles to his feet, glowering at the two of them. “I thought you summoned him, Lydia.”

“Oh I did. Tried to anyway. That was the plan.” Lydia reaches Stiles and throws her arms around him.

Stiles holds her close, but keeps his gaze on Peter. He doesn’t look impressed.

“The plan?” Peter’s mouth thins. “Why, husband dearest, am I getting the feeling that _Lydia_ also knew exactly what was going to happen here?”

She pulls back and winks at Stiles before turning around. “Of course I did. You didn’t?”

Peter bends down and takes the beanie off Bowen’s head. He starts wiping the blood off his hands using the beanie, murderous eyes on them. “I knew _enough_, apparently.”

Lydia hums. “Well, Stiles told me _years_ ago that I’d get called out to Maine, and we came up with a spell to summon him. He mentioned the time travel thing a bit.”

“A bit,” Peter echoes.

“Okay, a lot.”

“So, AODE and those asshole druids?” Stiles says. “Lydia was helping me test spell components for time travelling. They found out about me _and_ her. We weren’t allowed to communicate anymore and that’s why they were monitoring us. I couldn’t tell you the real reason we weren’t allowed to speak with each other, because time travel is a big no-no.”

Lydia’s smile is wicked. “I thought a fight about you would, you know, add a little guilt. A little _motivation_. Seeing how much you like me.”

Peter just glowers.

“Just so you know, this?” Lydia says, gesturing between them. “Not a fan. I never will be. But you’re not worth ending a friendship for, Peter.”

“Ecstatic to hear it.” Peter scrubs especially hard at a spot on his hands. Stiles can tell he’s furious. If looks could kill, the clearing would be covered in chunks of Stiles. And all he wants to do is laugh.

It _worked_.

Lydia turns to Stiles. “But, if what we came up with didn’t work, how did you time travel? _Did_ you time travel?”

“I did,” Stiles says. “I had to do it, myself. I cast it on myself.”

Lydia’s eyes go wide. “Oh.”

“_What_?” Peter tosses the beanie aside and marches over, the shift taking over. He grabs Stiles’ shoulders and shakes him, claws biting into his skin through his jacket. “You went through all this _willingly_? You knew what was coming and you still brought your younger self forward? You put _me_ through this? _Us_ through this? _Why_?”

Stiles wraps his hands around Peter’s wrists, keeping him there. “Peter. Firstly, we’re going to have a chat about the _pack of lies_ you told younger me about us. Secondly, this is time travel and paradoxes. It happened to me, and so it had to happen again, one way or another.”

“Forgive me if I find that reasoning a little _inadequate_.”

“We gain a lot from this. You in particular.” Peter’s eyes are blazing red; it makes Stiles smile. “Ah. Look at you.”

“Don’t make this about me,” Peter snarls. “I was keeping an eye out for suitable alphas to fight. Bowen wasn’t one of them. There are easier ways to fulfil a promise. Stiles. _We almost died._”

“Aw, come on, we almost die all the time. That’s not new.” Stiles runs his hands soothingly along Peter’s forearms.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” His hands tighten. “Why didn’t you tell me _everything_? This entire trip with your appallingly unprepared self has been a very, very tough exercise in trust. I love you. I trusted you. Why didn’t you trust me?”

Stiles snorts. “_Unprepared_? Excuse you, I prepared you and myself as best I could. You remember all those tattoos I gifted you? I slipped some extra spells in them—heal wounds caused by Bowen, reflect damage done by an alpha back onto the alpha, inflict damage on Bowen. Anything I could think of to help you win this fight. I know you can do it, but I wanted to make sure you survived.” He forces himself to calm down, not to be so defensive. “Look. I know. Okay? I know. I told you as much as I could, but _of course_ I couldn’t tell you everything; you wouldn’t have let me help Lydia at all. You’d have talked me out of this and just gone yourself.” He rubs Peter’s forearms again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. It might have broken the rules of the paradox. But I always trusted you. I trusted you to help me and to never leave me, even though I wasn’t the man you married. I trusted you to get me through it no matter what, _and you did_.”

Peter’s mouth twists unexpectedly—in a familiar way, the same way it did on their wedding day.

Stiles pulls him in closer. “Peter. Babe. I know we’ve been together for over a decade now, but you have to understand: it started for me during _this_. I started falling for you over the last four days, and without that, we wouldn’t be together in the first place.”

Peter’s fangs seem a little shorter than they were. “Yes we would.”

“Do we know that? If I hadn’t asked you out, all those years ago, would you have made a serious move on me?”

Peter’s silent.

“Even though this last part was horrific—and I know it was, I’ve lived with it for years now—I tried to make sure it all happened again exactly the way I remembered it. If I’d outright broken the paradox, I have no idea where we’d both be right now. It’s almost happened a bunch of times, actually, but somehow, everything pointed to this outcome.” He leans in. “So yes, I cast the spell on myself and almost killed us both. But I made sure the odds were on our side. I wanted us. I wanted _you_. Remember? We’re unstoppable.”

He watches Peter figure it out. His shift recedes and it’s easier to read him, even in the dark. Myriad expressions cross his face, from confusion to shock to disbelief to wonder. He’s speechless. Stiles is a lot proud of that.

The grips on his shoulders tighten painfully and Peter’s cheeks darken. “I can’t believe you. You conniving piece of shit. You manipulative bastard. You deceitful, risk-taking, overconfident asshole. I love you too. Never leave me again.”

“I never did.”

“Shut up.” Peter kisses him fiercely.

It’s cold and messy, but feels like coming home. It’s only been an hour of separation—this time, for him—but he still missed this, missed Peter. Now that it’s all over, he can finally share everything with him, all the little details and hopes and fears that simmered in the background of the last twelve years. He’s back, his husband is still his, and it’s over. All of this is done. He can live his life without this incident looming over him. The future stretches ahead of him, blank and unknown and limitless, and Stiles can’t _wait_ to see what happens next.

Peter ends the kiss and Stiles immediately reaches up and wipes away some blood splatter on his cheek. The red in Peter’s eyes fades away.

“Stiles,” Peter says softly, “I love you and knowing you did this for me makes me want to push you against the nearest tree and keep you there for the next three hours. But if you _ever_ pull something like this again, I’m divorcing you and taking the Lexus.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Lame. I hate that car. Try again.”

“I’ll take the ottoman.”

He gasps. “Over my dead body.”

“You guys done?” Lydia calls. “It’s the middle of the night, and I’m over this whole wintery-night-in-the-forest scene. And I have the water you requested, which is very heavy by the way.”

“Thanks, Lyds,” Stiles calls.

They can’t seem to stop grinning at each other.

Peter says softly, “She’s right, we need to move. You have to warm up, and those bodies aren’t going to bury themselves.”

The bodies. Right, not just Robert and Bowen, but Paul, Jo and Langley as well. Naomi is out there somewhere, maybe dead, maybe not. There’s a ton of clean-up to do and plans to make. It’s so strange to finally be doing this, finishing what they started. It remains to be seen what’s happened to the people trapped by the spell, but Stiles thinks a cover-up will be fairly easy now that the alpha of the territory has changed and the final troublesome AODE Board member is taken care of.

And he does want to be warm. Oh the possibilities . . .

Another long-distant memory surfaces, and even though they’ve done it countless times in countless places since getting together, Stiles thinks it’s more than time Peter kept his word. Twelve years and Stiles still wants to climb him like a tree. He could laugh with the joy of it, but instead he clears his throat. “You promised me car sex.”

Peter blinks. “Yes, but . . .” There’s a pause while he clearly recalibrates the conversation. “Oh my god, Stiles.”

Stiles knows him too well to be embarrassed. “It made an impression on me. I’ve waited _twelve years_ to celebrate the end of this with you.”

Peter seems pleased. “We will. But later. And not just in the car.”

With Robert dead, the magic is gone. Stiles reaches out and feels the forest rejuvenating itself. The trees around them are still dark, but the moon and stars are bright, and the cold is at bay. The ley lines hum happily below him, and he hopes they’ll realign back to the original nemeton.

He doesn’t know what’s next. Luckily he’s had over a decade to think about it, but he still doesn’t _know_.

It’s wonderful.

“Yeah, no rush,” Stiles says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we’re done! 
> 
> You won’t believe me, but I thought this would be like 30k at most *facepalms* jeeeeesus. I honestly didn’t realise this would grow into such a monsterfic, but nonetheless, it’s been an awesome (if at times wearying) experience writing and sharing this. I'll go back and make small adjustments so that everything lines up, but otherwise, this is finished. I didn't like the original title, and 'Keeping him' is the final title I decided on, but I kept the original in there to avoid confusion.
> 
> Thank you so much to those commenters who stuck with me all the way through variable update schedules and sketchy plot points. I loved reading your reactions, thoughts, and predictions; there were some difficult days where having your comments to read through helped so much. I appreciate every single one of you and I’ve been blown away by your feedback <3 thanks for reading!


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